


Bedtime Stories

by Professor_Maka



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professor_Maka/pseuds/Professor_Maka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a series of smutty little shorts.  NSFW/M or MA content.  Latest shorts written for SoMa NSFW Week 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Knitting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Soul teaches Maka to knit, sexy times ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I needed a place to put the slightly NSFW prompt shorts I've been writing, so Bedtime Stories was born. These will all be smut on some level, and there is some hardcore smut in the collection.**
> 
> **For those of you who have asked me to write real smut, this is it. This is from a tumblr prompt given by the amazing fabulousanima, SoMa knitting smut, written as a follower landmark. It is my first attempt at true, non cracky, full blown sexy times. It is smut eater, the real deal, totally NSFW. Graphic sex, people. Read at your own risk.**
> 
> **Smut is hard to write and I make no claims that this is good. There is no real plot-this is smut for smut's sake. I also know squattall about knitting, so any details I messed up with that I apologize for in advance. ******

Soul decided to let her suffer for a bit.

Mostly, this was because Maka was really cute when she concentrated, brow furrowed, eyes focused, tongue sticking out ever so slightly as she tried to work the yarn into a knot just so, though a small part of him relished her frustration; she had refused to let him buy the ingredients for chocolate fondue when they went grocery shopping earlier in the week, calling it a frivolous expense they couldn't afford. He'd had plans for that fondue, damnit. Only last month they had finally, after a few months of officially dating, started to do more than just sleep when they shared a bed, and it was fucking amazing and he couldn't get enough, and when she denied him ways to enhance their time together, it pissed him right off. Of course, the fact that she'd been bleeding all last week and he had spent a good deal of time getting intimately reacquainted with his hand also wasn't helping his own frustration level.

Well. He was pretty sure the bleeding was done. Maybe he could help lower the stress level for both of them a notch or five…

"Damnit!" she growled as she eyed the dozenth tangled, knotty mess she'd created in the past half hour. She was biting her lip now as she tried to untangle the mess, destroying all the work she'd done to attempt to make it all anew for the umpteenth time. She let out a heavy sigh.

"It looked so easy on youtube," she pouted. Soul laughed and she threw the hopeless orange mess in his face, her aim deadly accurate and him just missing getting his eye poked out via knitting needle by a quick shift of the head. As it was, it hit him on the ear and he shrugged it off, picking it up where it fell to his lap and eyeing it, his laughter continuing.

"Everything looks easy on youtube," he shrugged, still chuckling as raised his eyes from the yarn to her. "I could teach you, you know."

"You…know how to knit?" she scoffed, shaking her head.

"I do," his laughter had ceased as he looked at her, his face serious. She blinked twice.

"S…seriously?"

"Mmmhmm," his smile was, he hoped, seductive.

"How?"

He shrugged. "Well, you know, Arachne had an affinity for threads, so it's a death scythe thing, I guess." It sounded plausible, but the superior smirk must have betrayed a bit too much the whiff of amusement because she snatched the thick knitting book up from the table in front of her, and he dropped the knitting and threw up his hands in surrender.

"Okay, okay. My grandma taught me. Happy?"

"Really?" She raised one blonde eyebrow skeptically and he shrugged.

He rolled his eyes at her smile, frowning as she began to laugh.

"What?" he snapped.

"It's just—cool guy like you—I never pegged you for the knitting type."

"Hey, I was a kid, I was bored, and I thought it would be cool to make a hat, okay?" Clearly, he was not going to get the opening he had hoped for. He sighed, tossing the mess back her way.

"Okay," she said as she caught it.

"Okay what?"

"Oohhhkay you can teach me." She smiled.

"Oh, right—RIGHT. So, uh, come here." He patted his lap meaningfully. Things were looking up.

"And sitting there is going to help how?" She looked skeptical again.

"You don't trust me?" he said with mock hurt.

"No," she deadpanned, reaching again for the book.

"Fine, fine," his hands went up a second time. "Hand over hand. Now, come here already." He patted his lap again.

"Hand over what?"

"You know, like they teach little kids to write and eat and shit? I'll guide your hands with mine."

Her eyes narrowed. "Souul," she hissed in warning, her tone dangerous. "I am not a k—"

"Do you want to learn or don't you?"

"Fine," she huffed and stomped over to plop ungracefully into his lap. Rough treatment aside, it was Maka and she was warm and it had been a good week, so he had to will down his potential arousal. He really didn't need that. At least, not yet.

Once she was settled, Soul slid his hands slowly and lightly down the length of her arms, trailing goose bumps in his wake as he settled his hands on her wrists. She still had the monstrosity of knotted string and knitting needle clutched in one hand, so he slowly slid his right hand farther down to hers and unpried her fingers one by one, marveling, as he always did, at just how small her hands were. He had never been a big guy and he did not have large hands—long, delicate fingers, yes, but his hands were on the petite side. And yet, compared to hers, they seemed massive and he had always found it an odd contradiction that a woman who was so much the warrior could have such dainty extremities. That he knew what she could do with those extremities, both in battle and especially out of it, threatened a new rush of heat to his groin, so he quelled the impulse again, knowing this was going to end up a losing battle and hoping it was a battle she lost in turn. If the goose bumps and lack of resulting Maka chop were any indication, this outcome was seeming increasingly likely.

As she allowed him to slide the orange stringed horror from her hands, he transformed a scythe finger in a brief flash, cutting away the wasted yarn to slide the needles free, and then, transforming it back, reached past her side to catch up the ball of orange yarn at her knee. He moved it into her lap and then, trailed his own hand from her knee, up her thigh and side, to finally slide it down her arm and back to her wrist. He could feel the heat and sensation where his calloused fingertips met her exposed skin, her tank top and short shorts putting most of her flesh on display. Before, seeing so much of her so often when he was still quashing down feelings of love and longing and sheer want had been little short of absolute torment, necessitating more time alone in his room or the shower than he cared to recall. But now? Fuck, now he loved it because it let him do—well—this.

"Alright," he said softly, his head resting on her shoulder at the crook of her neck, his lips a hairsbreadth from her delicate earlobe, "you need to make a new slip knot. You remember how?" He felt her swallow thickly near his own chin, felt her slight nod. "Good," he breathed as her hands move beneath his grasp, lining up the needle and working the knot. This part, it seemed, she had mastered.

"Time to show me what you've been doing. Start knitting." Without questioning, she began to move her hands, but he had felt her small shudder at the heat of his breath against her neck and ear and couldn't suppress a smile. He was suddenly very glad he'd taken an odd interest in knitting the last summer he'd spent with his grandmother.

As she continued to work, knotting the yarn around the needles, she shifted her pace from hesitant to frantic quickly and Soul suddenly understood the problem.

"Maka, wait," he slid his hands down further over her own to stop her, then turned his head to speak into her ear again. "You're trying to move too fast too soon. You have to start slowly, then build up to a steady rhythm. It's not a race, it's a marathon, and if you try to do it too quickly, everything falls apart in the blink of an eye. This is why you keep making tangles. It's…more like a dance than a competition. Slow, steady, work together with the yarn and the needle, not against them. I know you can dance, Maka." His lips just brushed her earlobe as he breathed her name and she shuddered again. As he slid his hands back up to her wrists, she began to move them more slowly, rhythmically. But Soul saw another problem, and he slid his hands back over hers to stop her again.

"Too tight, Maka," he said softly, this time his mouth remained against her earlobe. "You should be caressing the needle with the yarn, not strangling it. There has to be room to slide the needle, to slide it out." He felt her swallow hard for a second time and nod as she left her knots more slack. She worked several more knots, moving her hands and the needles with the yarn steadily before Soul spoke again, moving his mouth back to her ear to enjoy her reaction.

"What are you knitting?" Her hands paused in their repetition for a moment.

"I don't know. A scarf, maybe."

"Mmmm…well, you need to decide how long and thick you want it," he got so close to her ear that he took her earlobe between his lips for the barest instant. "So you know where to stop." Maka couldn't hide her flush at this and he smiled against her ear. Death, this was the best knitting he'd ever done.

"I…I think this might be thick enough," she said hesitantly after a moment. The string of knotted yarn spread a good eight inches along the needle.

"You know how to slide it out and switch?" He had pulled his mouth from next to her ear to eye her work.

"I…yeah," she said hesitantly as she slowly moved the needle out and switched, then began a new row of ties. She had actually managed it with a bare but acceptable level of competence, so he let her keep working and, deciding she was doing well enough to allow him to relax his attention on her hands, Soul began to place light kisses, beginning on her earlobe and then trailing down her neck.

"Wha—Soul…" her tone was half warning, half breathless anticipation.

"Wanna make sure you can do it distracted," he moved his mouth back against her ear. "You should be able to knit through anything once you have it down."

She didn't respond, but returned to moving her fingers and he took her earlobe between his lips again and began to suck, then nipped it lightly, reveling in her quickening, stuttering breaths and small, suppressed shudders. Even still, as he moved his mouth down again and ventured a glance at her hands, they kept working, and he smiled and returned to his ministrations, opening his mouth to suck lightly on the delicate skin of her neck and relishing each and every shudder before finally murmuring against her skin, "you're doing well."

"Y…you, too." She managed to stammer out and that was all he needed.

His hands moved from their place on her wrists to trail goose bumps back up her arms, then down her sides, caressing her skin softly even as he shifted his head to pay his respects to the other side of her neck, his soft chaste kisses quickly graduating into sucking and nipping. He timed his first nip with moving his hands over the swell of her breasts and he felt her stiffen and stifle a soft moan as she leaned further into him. He moved his eyes back down to her hands again, but they had stilled as she panted against him.

"Souuul…" it was a breathless plea, a protest against his own stilled hands and mouth.

"You should keep knitting," he smiled against her and rubbed a thumb over the thin cloth covering her nipple for emphasis, eliciting another soft, stifled moan. She always went braless around the apartment, another once torturous fact that he had come to love. He knew he was long since hard against the warmth of her ass on his lap, and it was becoming increasingly torturous and uncomfortable to feel so confined, but he made no move to change it, instead keeping his focus on her, on sucking on the closest ear while sliding his hands back down and then under her shirt, a pert breast in each hand. He massaged for a short time, simply rubbing and squeezing while avoiding the nipples, before moving his fingers slowly, so slowly, to first rub and caress, and then, finally, as she writhed more and more in his lap, softly pull at them, enjoying the texture of the hardened, puckered flesh beneath his fingertips.

Occasionally, she would stop moving her hands as he worked her flesh, but he would always pause in his ministrations when she did and, getting the hint, she would keep shakily knitting through her moans and gasps and pants. As he pulled slightly more roughly on her nipples, timed with a hard suck and nip to the joining of her shoulder and neck, her wiggling became a hard grind of her ass down against her own hard arousal and he had to stifle his own gasp of need and pleasure. She had, as he glanced around to her hands, somehow managed to finish a third line now and was starting a fourth without a single tangle. Well, he meant to change that… clearly, he wasn't being distracting enough.

One hand trailed down from her breast, down her stomach to the low waist band of her too-short shorts, lingering for only a moment before diving under the fabric. He was met with the fabric of her bikini cut panties and trailed his hand down and around, even as his other hand kept rubbing slow circles on a nipple. Finally finding the jointure of her hip with her thigh, he slid his hand down, caressing just beside the heat radiating from her growing need, enjoying her gasps and the sheer hot moisture that could no longer be contained by too thin cloth, but had seeped to the place just beside, feeding his own mounting need.

"Soul," she panted. But her hands had stilled and so did he.

"Yes, Maka?" he replied huskily.

"I…"

"Knitting, remember?" he responded for her. She nodded shakily and, in reward, he slid his fingers over to caress over the fabric of her soaked panties, moving up and down the covered slit. Watching her hands and her body, he noted that even through her shuddering moan she did not completely still her hands, and he rewarded that diligence again by moving aside the fabric of her panties to slide his finger into the wet wonderland that was her sex, slipping past her labia and along her outer length to find her clit, already hard and aching for his touch. He stopped for the barest instant as he noticed, again, the stilled needles, then moved again as they did, stroking her with one long finger, his own need on fire at the feel of her so hot and wet and willing, at her writhing in his lap at his touch even as she kept fucking knitting.

Noticing that she was, even now, shakily starting a fifth row, he slid his hand down again, one long finger sliding along her hot, wet length for a second time to reach the source of the fountain. As he teased that finger along her entrance, he breathed against her ear.

"Maka, you're making a mess." She arched against him and moaned as he slid his finger inside of her, putting pressure against her textured inner walls, looking for that place inside that would leave her a shuddering mess. He knew he'd found it when she let out a high pitched wail, her whole body bucking and grinding down against him, causing him to moan against her neck in response. His own need was becoming almost overwhelming, the feel of her, hot and wet and tightening on his finger and the thought of how good that was going to feel when he finally used more than just his finger sheer torment, but he wasn't going to go there yet. Not just yet. If there was one thing he had come to know in their many weeks of experimentation, of getting to know her body and his own and how they worked together, it was that drawing it out, leaving her begging for him, having himself begging, it made it better, so much better. So he forced restraint, he was pretty damned good at restraint, and kept teasing that fold of flesh inside of her that had her keening.

The stitches of her knitting had become slightly less steady, he noted, but she was still working at it, shakily, breathlessly, slowly, between shuddering moans and gasps and grinding down against his arousal with her fucking amazing ass. She was working on a final stitch of the fifth row when she stopped knitting, pressing her back along his length after an almost sobbing keen. His own hand was soaked inside of her, and he could feel the hot moisture of his precum as he continued to strain against his jeans.

"Soul, I need…I neeeed…" she was practically sobbing, her plea vocal and broken.

"What do you need, Makaah…" he breathed against her ear. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised when she twisted in his lap, the knitting thrown to the coffee table, his hand losing its purchase inside of her. She straddled him, her eyes green flame as they met his, as she ground down onto his long overstrained need even as she worked at the button of his jeans.

"You," she gasped as she ground down again, rubbing herself forcefully against the hardness in his jeans. All restraint gone, seared away by the heat of her gaze, he pushed her down onto the couch then awkwardly shucked off his jeans and boxers in an odd half standing crouch above her, even as he watched her struggle to wiggle out of her own shorts and panties from her place on her back.

"I think that's enough knitting," he managed, even as he felt her hand, warm and wonderful, grasping his length. He stepped hastily out of his pants, kicking his discarded clothing to the side and looking down at her, her eyes slits of want and promise as she stroked his length once, twice. He moved to kneel over her but she shook her head.

"Shirt too." She said huskily, and as she continued to grasp him, moving hot, skilled fingers down to occasionally stroke his balls or to spread his precum and work that maddening spot where his head met his shaft, that small, wicked, wonderful spot she had discovered without him even having to tell her early in their times together, he moaned and ripped his own t-shirt over his head forcefully before practically diving between her thighs in his own need. As his length met the impossible heat between her labia, he slid along it, reveling in the hot wetness even as all he really fucking wanted was to plunge deep inside of her and never come out. But he could hold back this much, this long. Finally having full access to her front with his mouth, he trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses from one breast to the other, finally licking and sucking and nipping, moaning every time she bucked against him in the intensity of her pleasure. He was slowly working the tip of his dick against her clit and it had her keening his name; the feel of her heat and the sobbing of his name vibrating from her chest, it was almost too much. He was going to lose it before he even really felt her or she felt him and that just wasn't fucking acceptable at all. So he pulled back his throbbing cock, sitting back on his knees and moving the hands that had been tangled in her hair or under her ass, back down to caress her thighs.

"Soul…" it was half whine, half warning, her eyes narrowed further in need and frustration.

"Soon," came his promise and his prayer, his voice husky with want, followed with the placating presence of two fingers inside of her molten heat, caressing, seeking. Her sob let him know he had found the place once more, that spot within her folds that would soon have her begging, and he stroked with gentle force even as his free hand moved up to kneed a breast once more. He was willing his own overwhelming need to cool enough that he wouldn't lose it like a fucking virgin the moment he was inside of her (in truth, their first time he had lasted a good three thrusts and felt like a total chump,) though it was almost impossible with the feel of her clenching around him, her own need visible and slick on her now soaked thighs. Her moans and gasps were like a symphony and he played her like the musician he was, reveling in each wail, each cry of his name.

"Fuck, Soul, I need… please…" Ah, this was what he had wanted, what he had been waiting for. He stilled his hand, trailing it up her stomach and her breast, letting her feel her own urgency cooling against her skin. He was kneeling between her legs again, his eyes pinning her gaze.

"What?"

"Please?" Her eyes pleaded as well as she squirmed beneath him, bucking up against him, needing.

"What do you need, Maka? Tell me what you want me to do." He loved this part, loved hearing it, having her say what she would never say otherwise. Loved the complete trust she put in him, the trust he put in her in turn.

"I need…" she stammered as he moved himself against her clit ever so slightly, his own cock twitching at the delicious contact, causing her to moan again. Her eyes were heavily lidded as she looked up at him. "…you. Please. Inside of me." He moved his mouth to work against her neck, sucking, hot against her flushed and sensitive skin, but doing nothing more before he breathed against her ear.

"My fingers were just there, but you wanted something else. What do you want, Maka?"

"Fuck, Soul. I want you. I want your cock..in..inside of me." He grinned against her heated skin and slid himself down and slowly in, her molten heat surrounding him almost a form of madness. It took every ounce of his restraint not to do more, but as he slid completely within her he stilled.

"Soul…" she whined. "Please…?" Her voice was broken with want; it matched his own overwhelming desire.

"What?" his own broken voice demanded. "I'm inside you." He wanted, needed her to tell him, the culmination of their game. He felt her clench around him, felt her buck against him, even as she gasped.

"Move. Fuck me—Death, please. Please fuck me." It was what he had waited so long to hear and the dam burst, his own overwhelming need taking over as he reared back to thrust inside of her again. He repeated the movement, her delicious heat overwhelming, the feel of her clenching and tightening around him, the feel of having to force his way back in with every thrust as she became so tight it felt like she wanted to swallow his cock whole. He found her mouth at last, kissing her deeply, tasting every gasp and moan. This felt so good. It had never been this good, even when….

Fuck. Oh fuck. He stilled within her again, panting, so close to the edge it was physically painful not to continue, but he couldn't, wouldn't. About to pull out, to go do what must be done in spite of everything within him screaming no, she looked up at him in question.

"Soul?"

"Condom," he practically growled, and as relief and understanding flooded her features he was doubly confused. She thrust up against him, pulling him down into a searing kiss, her hot tongue sliding along the length of his own, before pulling back and speaking against his lips.

"Pill. I started the pill last month, remember?" Oh. OH. Well, fuck. Second month, no more back up. He growled against her mouth, reinitiating the kiss and thrusting again inside of her, but she pulled away from his mouth after a moment.

"Wait!" she gasped. He moved his head up, confused.

"I…I thought…" in spite of it all, the fact he was buried deep within her, that she had only minutes ago been begging for him, she looked a little embarrassed, her flush deepening. "Maybe we could, uh, try something. Um, new?"

"Okay…?" he knew his voice was husky with need.

"R…resonate with me?"

Oh. OH. Yeah, he could do that. That would be… oh. He nodded, and she whispered "Soul Resonance," and their souls reached, and touched, and grabbed hold, and suddenly he wasn't just inside her but inside of her and she was inside of him, and it was all sensation and need and as she thought move he did, over and over again as he felt it all, every move, every sensation, of filling and being filled, of thrusting, of pushing back, of tightening, of forcing past that tightness.

If not having a condom on, of feeling every fold within her, of her feeling every ridge and line of him, had not been different and amazing enough, feeling it all through this, this link, this ultimate oneness was exponentially greater, and as he lost his grip on all that he was in her, in them, and finally exploded inside of her, coming with a heat and intensity that was pushed beyond any limit as he felt her feel his throbbing, searing release inside of her, triggering her own, as she pulsed around him and they both cried out, mutual, wordless cries of ecstasy, beyond all sense, beyond anything but overwhelming pleasure, the overwhelming sense of being two in one, together.

Even with his release and hers, their resonance filling him with everything that was Maka and everything that was them together, he started moving again within her, hearing and feeling and knowing her gasp at the feel of him within her oversensitive core. He was still hard, and it still felt good, so he moved and she moved and they became lost in each other for the second time in as many minutes, his name becoming a chant of panted gasps on her lips, his own lips seeking hers again, their hot tongues sliding against one another a mirror to their heat sliding together once more below. He went slower this time, less desperate, letting it build once more. He felt her hand snake between them, felt her pleasure mount as she began to rub herself with the hand trapped by his thrusts. Another minute later of her slick, slick heat getting tighter and tighter around him again, of moans and gasps and increasingly forceful thrusts, and they were undone once more, hurled into the stratosphere and beyond for the second time in a brief span, left panting and twitching, his finally softening member still inside her own throbbing, sopping, overwrought flesh. The sense of one, together remained through their resonance. The awe and amazement of what had happened, of both having come twice, was still on their minds, overwhelming their every thought.

He pulled out with a soft hiss, laying atop her, panting, her panting beneath him. When her mind sleepily sighed bed he knew she meant sleep, and they both shakily got to their feet, her unceremoniously grabbing his wadded t shirt to try to stem the flow of other between her legs, before they both staggered into bed. They cut their resonance as they cuddled together on his bed, warm and safe as they drifted into their dreams.

The strip of knitting, Maka decided the next day, would be a bookmark. For awhile, she even tried to use it, but as she later admitted to him, found that she could never quite get any reading done because every time she saw it, her mind reeled back to that night and him andany other thought was beyond her ability to focus, then. So she put the bookmark up, but every now and again, when she was particularly absorbed in a good, long book, it would find its way back, and having no doubt how it got there, she would seek the culprit for appropriate punishment. Soul never, never minded taking her punishment.

There was, of course, another consequence to this little escapade, awkward and unforeseen. For the rest of their born days, neither Soul nor Maka could hear or speak of knitting without becoming instantly aroused, and while this sometimes proved embarrassing and inconvenient, knitting yet remained a source of pleasure between them for years to come.


	2. Unconventional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maka and Soul had never done anything the way they were supposed to, and that included sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is real smut eater, totally M/NSFW, graphic sex people. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. It's also a bit on the fluffy side as smut goes. It has an odd, shifting omniscient perspective past the initial expositional narration that will, hopefully, be easy enough to follow.**

They never did things quite the way people expected them to, quite the way they were supposed to in anyone else's eyes. It wasn't something purposeful, something planned. It just was.

Like resonance. They had collected 99 kishin souls without being able to resonate properly, 99 kishin souls and one cat soul, actually. 100 souls, all the old fashioned hack and slash way. It was unheard of, to do so so young, to do so by simple slash and kill, but they had done it. Everyone would have expected Maka Albarn, top of her class, meister protégé, daughter of the greatest weapon-meister team Shibusen had ever seen, to resonate well and truly, to do so quickly and without issue. And when they hadn't? Everyone had expected that maybe they never would, or maybe they would patch together some half assed bond that would barely pass muster, or maybe the meister would finally ditch her sarcastic, lazy weapon for someone more driven. Yet, when they finally got it, they got it, and their resonance, their soul bond, had become the envy of the school.

Actually, in the beginning, no one had expected the friendly bookworm and the odd looking, caustic scythe to last more than a week as partners, but they had.

And then, years later, just before the battle on the moon, when they were so close that every look, every touch, screamed their feelings to everyone who saw them, everyone expected they were dating, but they weren't. Everyone expected them to start dating any minute, any second, but they hadn't. Everyone seemed to know it was love but Soul and Maka themselves. It took them a long, long time to figure it out, or declare it, or share it, and it wasn't until over a year after the incident on the moon that they finally, for whatever reason, did. It wasn't like anything much changed from the outside—only Black*Star had spied a stolen kiss in the hall, and suddenly, when people asked Soul if Maka was his girlfriend, or Maka if Soul was her boyfriend, neither denied it.

No, they never did things quite as they were expected to do them. Not as weapon and meister, not in love, not with sex.

Yes, sex. That was next in the progression, wasn't it? And everyone had figured, close as they were, once they declared their undying love and whatnot and were together, the weapon and meister would be completelytogether. Even Spirit had been so convinced that the younger scythe had defiled his daughter that he had sat the boy down for a serious and confusing talk about Maka, sex, being safe, and not breaking her heart you cocky little shit the instant they'd been caught kissing, and long before anything else could even hope to occur.

Because nothing had occurred. Soul and Maka didn't work that way. It didn't matter that they had long since considered each other's personal space fair game and open season, long before kissing had engaged in little touches and hand holding, and snuggling. It didn't matter that they were utterly comfortablewith one another, body and soul. Everyone had assumed that if the far less physically demonstrative meister-weapon couple Black*Star and Tsubaki had jumped into bed the very night they confessed their attraction (and pretty much the whole school was aware of this fact, much to the shadow weapon's chagrin, because her meister had a big mouth,) then surely Soul and Maka, with all that touching and meaningful glancing, would do the same.

Only they wouldn't, they hadn't. And, two months after an accidental kiss that led to stammered confessions, they still hadn't really progressed beyond kissing and snuggling and holding hands. Hands had roamed, but only to safe territory, kisses had deepened, but nothing beyond.

Maybe it was because Maka was still afraid, so afraid, of screwing things up. Afraid that if she gave into her own sometimes overwhelming physical need, she would become somehow like her father. If they took things slowly, carefully, didn't become too caught up in that desire she was well aware they both felt, maybe it would all turn out okay. Or maybe it was because Soul could sense her hesitation and, as in most things, let her take the lead. She set the pace, and so far, the pace was agonizingly, torturously slow.

Trips to the bathroom or a bedroom were frequent for both, though separately, particularly after their intense but controlled make out sessions, where heated kisses were exchanged, where lips met necks and throats and ears, where hands roamed down arms and up thighs and tangled into hair, but where nothing more occurred. Both were always left panting for more when Maka would inevitably push her weapon come boyfriend away, claiming exhaustion, or suggesting they should watch television, or exclaiming a need to use the restroom. Or, or, or—anything but continue down the road they were on, which was skirting dangerously close to hands on pert breasts, or underneath too short skirts, or grasping arousal clearly straining beneath stiff denim.

When a new line was finally drawn in the sand, long after anyone would have thought possible, it was, as so many things for the two of them, because Maka decided to cross it. It was a Saturday night, one in which, as had become the norm over the past two months, their movie viewing had quickly turned into something else. Cuddled together on the couch so snuggly, it took very little, a stray touch, a warm smile, to provoke their mutual ardor, to turn movie night into make out night.

On this particular night, it was well into their make out session, high time that Maka pushed away and ran to the bathroom or bedroom or anywhere but here and now. How many times had they done this, had she done this? His hands felt achingly good squeezing her hips, just riding up hot and needy over her waist. Her own hands tangled in his hair again as he began to trail wet kisses down her neck, his tongue darting out to tease soft skin, causing her to bite back a moan. It always felt so good, and later, as she touched herself in the bath or in the bed, she knew she would think of how much better it would feel if she didn't hold them back, if it were him doing the touching, riding thoughts of him to orgasm, biting back the impulse to cry out his name in her ecstasy. She was entirely certain he did the same, spending his time alone with her on his mind, thoughts of her hand where his would be, and that knowledge kindled her own flame higher and brighter.

It was always the same. She wondered, silently, if the fact that she was tired of it was a sign that it was time to do more, go further. Would there be harm, really, in letting him touch more? In touching more herself? She ached to feel him, to know what it would be like to grasp him, hold him, stroke him. Would the skin be soft? Would he be hot? Would he moan and gasp at her touch as he did when she kissed just the right spot on his neck or when she nibbled his lip? And what would it feel like, to be touched by him in those places she had forbidden them to go. To feel his hands stroking the needy flesh of her breasts, the aching heat of her clit.

Maka might be prone to hesitate about some things, but when she did finally decide, it tended to happen quickly. Suddenly, she decided. What harm, to have his hand stroke her heat instead of her own? To stroke his in turn? They already thought of each other as they pleasured themselves. Why not simply exchange hands? That wasn't much farther than they went here, a small step, a baby step. Not intercourse, they didn't have to go there yet in order to go here, do this.

Her choice made, she moved one hand slowly, teasingly, from its place in his hair to trail down his neck, then chest.

For his part, Soul felt her hand and thought she must be about to push him away, push them apart as she generally did at this point, resigned himself to it as much as he wanted more, so much more. He expected it every second, even as her warm little hand teased the flesh of his stomach and he bit his lip, bit down on his gasp of need, even as he wished and willed that her hand would keep moving, keep going, that she would finally touch him where he had ached for her touch for so long.

As her hand lingered at the waistline of his jeans, he expected her to flee at any moment, disappointment flaring unbidden. He gave her neck a hard suck, the intensity of his action a promise and a plea. Maka gasped, and he felt her shiver her pleasure before her hand began to move once more, not to push him away as he expected, but to travel farther down, just brushing against the hardness in his jeans, just brushing against that part of him he had been praying for her to touch all this while, soft, hesitant, searing, and not nearly enough. He wanted more even as this was all he had ever wanted. Her feather light touch along the top of his jeans was slow torture, her tracing of his hardness the most exquisite, most teasing thing he had ever experienced. He couldn't stifle his moan, still his impulse to move his hand up where he had never dared touch, taking her cue, grazing the side of her breast. She gasped in return, and he felt her shiver beneath his fingertips; taking that and her own wandering hand as a sign, a shift in the boundary, he ventured his hand over the swell of her breast, enjoying the feel of her flesh, warm and soft in his hand even through the fabric of her tank top. He enjoyed her soft moan, the slight arch of her body at his touch, the feel of her hardened nipple in his palm as he squeezed softly.

At the feel of his hand on her breast, where she had so long ached to feel it, had so often denied her longing, Maka's faint touch became firm, forcefully groping his hard length under the rough fabric of his jeans. She wanted to feel more and, as his breathing became unsteady in her ear, as her own breath caught at the feel of him teasing first one then another nipple through the fabric of her shirt, she quickly moved her hand up, pulling at the snap of his jeans to leave enough room to snake her hand underneath the denim. She dug beneath the fabric of his boxers without ceremony, needily grasping his hot, stiff cock in her hands, so unexpectedly soft and silky, yet so warm and hard. It was foreign, yet wonderful, this part of him she had dreamed of touching so long now twitching in the palm of her hand. Gratified by his ragged moan at her initial touch, eager to find out what pleased him, to hear him cry his pleasure, she began to move her fingers along his length, exploring with soft touches and firm ones, trying to figure out where he liked to be touched, where it would feel best, how she might bring him to the brink and beyond.

"Maka," his voice was low, her hand holding him, stroking him, a form of insanity, his mind entirely filled with her touch and the feel of her flesh beneath his hands. Soul moved his own hands down and beneath the fabric of her shirt and, encountering neither protest nor resistance, palmed a bare breast. While he mourned the momentary stilling of her hand, he enjoyed her moan against his ear, throaty, needy.

"Soul," she gasped, and suddenly he felt her free hand leave his hair, felt it grasp one of his own hands and guide it down her torso, down to the fabric of her sleep pants and beneath.

"Please," Maka breathed in his ear, even as her pace quickened on his shaft, her fingers spreading sticky precum over his head, working it over his tip, feeling to finally reach that vein along the bottom, that spot where it met his head, that made him moan and gasp, causing him to forget, for the barest instant, that his hand was now poised above her panties, the fabric soaked by her rising desire. The feel of that, her wetness, her heat underneath the fabric, underneath his hand, elicited another gasp from him and a simultaneous gasp from her as he began to stroke along the fabric, along the still covered slit of her womanhood. Soul couldn't believe he was touching her, that she was touching him. Her hand felt so good, so right, and he wanted nothing more than to feel her against his heated skin forever as he continued to stoke her covered sex, to feel her maddening touch on his skin, to feel her soft breast in his other hand.

"More," she panted, turning her mouth to kiss and lick the skin of his neck, lifting her bottom ever so slightly from her place straddling his knee to give him better access. Never one to deny his meister, he slid aside the soaked strip of cloth he had been stroking, slid a finger along her hot length for the barest instant before working it between her wet folds. Her moan, the tightening of her grasp around his own length, the feel of her so hot and wet and needy, caused him to moan in turn, to feel around for that part of her he knew he should find, though he had no experience to rely on, to tell him precisely where. After a few moments of feeling, blindly, his finger finally hit upon a part of her that felt hot and hard, puckered beneath her wetness and his touch, and as his finger ran over it, her soft gasp of his name, her stilled hand, was all he needed to hear, He began to stroke, reveled in her own quickened pace, her index finger running over that most sensitive part of him, that place where head and shaft met, over and over again, causing him to shudder, his own fingers working over her hot flesh causing her to do the same, to writhe and moan and finally gasp.

"Soul!," her moan tore from her lips, unbidden, and his echoing "Maka," the feel of his cock twitching once beneath her fingers, made her shiver with pleasure. This, this was surely better than being shut up in her room, trying to bite back her cries of his name, imagining fingers that felt so much better on her skin than her dreams of them ever could. Maka could not have imagined how his slight callouses would feel, rough yet soft against her, how feeling him stroke her, swirling his fingers, changing his pace, quick then slow then quick again, would leave her panting and gasping, how the feel of his hot length in her hand, so warm, so soft, so impossibly big and needy, weeping and twitching with her every touch, would leave her aching for him, even as his fingers worked to satisfy that ache. She wanted this, needed this. She wanted more than this, needed more than this, too, but this could be enough. It was more than she had ever imagined, less than she ultimately knew she desired, but it could suffice because it was so much greater than anything they had done before, so much more fulfilling.

Maka quickened her pace unbidden, her own moans tearing through her at his ministrations, loud and raw and uncontrollable, Soul's answering grunts and gasps building her own pleasure, building his in turn. They fed off each other, their mutual touch, their mutual sound, spontaneous and ragged and beautiful, this music they made together. She felt herself getting close to the edge, her fingers seeking his hot, soft tip once, twice, felt him twitch against her hand, heard his ragged cry of her name, his hot seed spilling against her palm. At the feel of him, twitching and spurting, she imagined what it would feel like against her, inside of her, and she cried out his name in her turn as his relentless fingers and the image of him, so hot and hard inside of her, pushed her over the edge.

Her voice was ragged in her own ears, her moan more like a scream, long and aching, his name on her lips pleading and reverent. She had never come so hard, not by her own hand, and she knew that she would never wish to go back to her own hands when she could have his.

The meister collapsed against her weapon, spent, panting for breath for several minutes, feeling his own pants beneath her, the rise and fall of his chest, his hand snaking out of her panties to draw her closer, trapping her own hand in his jeans. She moved back, looking at him sheepishly as she pulled her hand out and away, eyeing the cooling evidence of his release speculatively.

"We should probably clean up," she mumbled, coloring, sliding off his lap to make for the sink. Maka glanced back to see her scythe rise and shuffle uncomfortably towards his room. She returned her focus to her hand, washing carefully, then drying, marveling at what she had just done, what they had just done together. She had shoved them across the line she'd drawn, and she knew there was no going back. Thinking to what had just happened, how good it had felt, how right, she could not regret it.

It wasn't another moment before Soul softly padded out of his room, dressed in only sleep pants, and moved up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her to him. She felt good in his arms, so small and soft and warm, and he couldn't help breathing in her scent through her hair with a contented sigh. This had been what he'd wanted for weeks, months, years, longer. Not everything he'd wanted, maybe, but so much more than he'd ever felt until now.

"We should go to bed," he murmured against the back of her ear and she nodded, slightly, her assent.

"Mmmmhmmm."

"My room?" he asked, though he needn't have. He had the bigger bed, and while they might do nothing but cuddle or kiss, they had taken to sharing it weeks ago.

"Mmmmhmmm."

His only response was to spin her in his arms, eliciting a surprised gasp, before planting a soft kiss on her hairline. She smiled up at him and then, wriggling from his arms, pulled him by the hand to bed.

Quickly settled, Maka in his arms, her body molded pleasantly against his, Soul couldn't help but smile against the back of her head, a smile that widened as she spoke softly.

"Goodnight, Soul. I love you."

"I love you, too." He said easily, marveling at how even such powerful words failed to represent everything he meant by them, everything they represented for him. He pulled her that slight bit closer, trying to convey through touch what he could not through words and decided, perhaps in what they had done tonight, what they had shared, he might have begun to let her feel what she meant to him, what she would always mean to him.

No, Soul and Maka never did anything the way they were expected to, waiting so long for every half step, relishing every small change, sharing their space and their bed long before they shared their bodies. But that was them, together, their path, their choice, and as they drifted into contented slumber, neither would change it.


	3. One Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What will happen when Soul and Maka are forced to share a tiny twin bed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This fic was based on my misreading a prompt from snorlaxslovesme (bed sharing). It is cracky SoMA.**

"One bed, one twin bed, are you kidding me?" She was tapping her fingers on the counter impatiently, the dried streak on her hand drawing the nervous gaze of the desk clerk.

"I…I'm sorry, miss, but with the war re-enactors in town, it's all we've got, and you're lucky we have that. There was a last minute cancellation." Sensing her nervousness, Maka let out a breath, stilling her hand.

"Do you have a rollaway?"

"N..no ma'am. With the re-enactors in town they're all—" The clerk had replastered on her fake, bright smile, barely held in place below anxious eyes.

"—booked. Okay, I've got it. Extra blankets, then?"

"We…we had some issues with the service what with the blizzard, and with the re-enactors in town—"

"—Gotcha, one bed, one set of blankets. Fabulous." Maka sighed, holding out a hand. "We'll take it."

"You…will?" the woman, more like a girl she couldn't have been more than 18, blinked in confusion.

"Of course we will, it's the middle of a blizzard and you're the only motel for miles."

"Oh, yes, yes of course. Uh, here you go, miss." She slid over the key. "That'll be—" Maka slid a sleek black card towards her.

"Bill it to the DWMA,"

"Oh, oh! Uh, okay Miss—miss—"

"Albarn."

"Miss Albarn. Have a pleasant night." Maka forced a tired smile, tamping down her annoyance at this entire situation, this whole stupid day. It was hardly this girl's fault that she was the bearer of bad news, the last straw in the comedy of errors that had been this mission.

"You too," she responded with false brightness before turning to walk towards the door. Soul was waiting just outside, his breath coming in clouds of white in the frozen air, the thin awning the only barrier between him and the thickly falling snow.

"'Bout time," he said lazily, his tone one more of exhaustion than of snark.

"Oh, just come on!" she snapped unhappily, trudging through the thick snow past the awning and down past room after room, looking for the one that they would share. She didn't check to make sure he followed, but could hear his footsteps crunching through the snow behind her. The world was too still in the midst of the storm, and she began to mutter to herself just to break the quiet.

"42, 42…ah!" Their room was at the very end, next to a laundry room/concession combination. Slid the old fashioned key into the lock and turned, walking in without a backward glance and hunting for a switch. She heard the door shut firmly behind her as she found the light and, clicking it on, she heard Soul whistle. In no mood, she whirled on him.

"What?"

"It's sort of—small—is all." It really was. The laundry area ate into the space of a standard room, leaving barely space for the twin bed against a wall, a nightstand and lamp, a chair, and a small dresser. There were two doors at the end, across from each other. Maka could only guess that they led to a closet and the bathroom.

"Yeah, so?" It wasn't like she didn't feel the same way, but she really didn't want to hear it right now.

"So…there's one bed. One tiny bed—" she cut him off.

"It was the only room, Soul, and we're stuck in a blizzard in the middle of nowhere. One of us can sleep on the floor, alright? Whoever gets the floor gets the blankets."

"Yeah, whatever." He grumbled in response. "Fuckin' unbelievable. Coin flip then, winner pi—" he was cut off by a loud crack and boom and suddenly, they were in the dark.

"Oh Death," she sighed, rolling her eyes heavenward. "Really?" It just kept getting better. She stormed off towards where she remembered seeing the two doors, her footsteps not faltering in the darkness.

"What the hell, Maka? Where are you going?"

"To take a shower before the hot water goes, where do you think?"

"Oh. Whatever," she heard him let out a loud breath and sighed herself. It was going to be a long night.

Fumbling through the bathroom had not been easy, nor was keeping her shower minimal to make sure Soul got a shot at the quickly cooling water, but 20 minutes later, they were clean and changed and ready to go to bad. The light of a few candles, brought in by the clerk while Maka had still been in the shower, flickered softly. Apparently, the clerk had apologetically warned Soul that they would not have power back until sometime tomorrow, and that meant the heat would be gone as well. Maka groaned at this; there went the idea of someone taking the floor—they'd need to share the bed if they didn't want to freeze in this mess.

Climbing into bed, Maka flattened herself against the wall, peeling back the covers and making as much room for her weapon as she could. Even with her against the wall, he was still snuggled warmly against her and as he tucked the covers around both of them, he settled into a position which could only be described as spooning. The meister colored at the thought, glad Soul could not see her with her back to him; she had imagined this scenario many times, but never like this with both of them reluctant participants, and living it was something else. With nothing but his sleep pants and her sleep shorts and tank top between them, Maka was too aware of his body against hers, how good it felt, how right. He was her weapon and he'd made it clear enough he wasn't interested with all those comments about her fat ankles and her tiny chest—this was stupid. Really, really stupid. Shutting her eyes, she tried to force herself to calm and, the soothing, familiar presence of his body and soul soon lulled her to sleep.

Waking up the next morning with his warmth pressed against her was pleasant, blissful even. And that dream! She had had such dreams beyond counting before, of them being together, but never had they been so vivid. His nearness must have put her sleeping mind into overdrive, so lucid was her memory of the time they'd shared in her dreams, the feel of him, the taste of him and of his name on her lips cried in ecstasy, the perfect music of his voice gasping out her own name like a prayer, the bliss of surrounding him fully, of feeling him fully…

She sighed contentedly, snuggling against him at the memory before realizing two very important things. The first was that she was naked—completely stark naked. The second was that it was not cloth she nestled against but hot flesh, his flesh, part of which was poking against her thigh in a way very evocative of her dr—shit! Shit, shit, shit! What had—had they—was she—?

"Makaaa," she felt as much as heard him mumble sleepily against the skin of her back, causing her to shudder, with dread or anticipation or some mix of the two. "G'back ta sleep. 'kin hear ya thinkin' from here."

Oh my Death they had—Sweet Shinigami they really had, must have… She could still feel the stickiness between her legs, the dull, unfamiliar yet not unpleasant ache. In their sleep. In their sleep they had—and did that mean he—oh Death, oh Death, oh Death!

"'M serious, Makaaaa." He whined. "Jus' sleep."

She let out a sigh and allowed herself to snuggle further into his warmth. Whatever had happened had happened—there was no changing it now—and she was still far too exhausted to face it. She supposed they would just have to sort it out when they were both awake. For now, she allowed herself to enjoy the feel of his warm embrace as she drifted back to sleep. She had to admit, it felt an awfully lot like home.


	4. Cabin Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Soul and Kid have to share a bed, things get awkward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So this—very questionable thing—was the result of snorlaxslovesme's prompt, Soul and Kid have to share a bed. It is slightly NSFW for sexually explicit content, and I should probably put in a TRIGGER WARNING for molestation to be on the cautious side (there is nothing malicious but—well—you'll see). This is definitely cracky, and well, I wrote it at 4 in the morning on my phone and it shows. It's really more sort of oddly SoMa-y despite the lack of the Ma part than anything. So here, have an odd, odd little drabble.**
> 
> **As a final note-do people really want me to continue "One Bed"? It was written as a one shot, but it wouldn't be impossible to write more. It'd take some thought, but it's do-able.**

When they walked into the cabin, their home away from home for the night, Soul let out a groan. It was a small place, with only a kitchenette, a fireplace already thoughtfully lit, and a sofa that pulled out into a bed. The only bed. The kishin was dead, its soul currently residing in his stomach with a pleasant warmth, and he was exhausted from maintaining an uneasy resonance with Kid; he just wanted to stretch out and crash. And yet, that was going to be a huge fucking problem.

Whose idea had this been again? Oh, yeah. Stein. Fucking asshole Stein. He remembered the day well, only last week, that the bastard had called him into the death room, his glasses glinting evilly.

"Since you are the Last Death Scythe, Lord Death will need to practice wielding you," he'd insisted smugly. When Soul made some protest along the lines of needing more training with Maka to be ready, Stein just shrugged, his smile making the scythe shudder.

"Well, you could always practice with me if you think you aren't ready." Soul had wanted to punch the sadistic bastard—Kid was his friend and his boss, but Maka was his meister, and they both knew that the only reason Kid would be able to wield him at all is because he was a Shinigami and Soul a deathscythe.

In the end, Kid had agreed to one mission—as he'd admitted to Soul after the professor left, he had no intention of giving up his own weapons, but it was best to appease Stein so they could put it past them.

So here they were, kishin dead, both exhausted (Kid had kept complaining about how heavy and asymmetrical he was,) facing a night in a small cabin with only one bed. One cramped, uncomfortable bed.

Well, maybe it didn't have to be a problem. Maybe his exhaustion, soul deep, was blowing the situation out of proportion; it was just Kid. Yeah, it would be a bit cramped, but it didn't have to be awkward or anything. Soul certainly wasn't interested—Wes might swing both ways but Soul just didn't—and even if he did, Kid was about as sexual as a toaster, so he figured it really was a non-issue. Two friends, crashing in the same bed. Whatever.

Soul stripped down to his boxers and moved towards the bed, glancing back towards Kid.

"Right side or left?" Kid just blinked at him. "Of the bed—do you want the right side or the left?"

"Oh, I see. Right is fine." Kid said, following suit to strip down to boxers and a t-shirt as Soul climbed into the left side of the bed.

It was only a few minutes before both boys were settled, each courteously scooting as far to his edge as physically possible, no part touching. If it were his actual meister on the other side of the bed instead of this—honestly—piss poor substitute (he liked Kid, but death god though he was, the guy was no scythe mesiter,) Soul might have been nervous. The scythe had dreamed of sharing a bed with his meister long and often, and be forced to do so by necessity would have been awkward since she clearly wasn't interested. He'd have been afraid to do something stupid while half asleep.

But this wasn't Maka, this was Kid. No problem, no big deal. Closing his eyes, Soul thought of returning to Death City in the morning, to his meister, and was assured of pleasant dreams.

Knowing it was a dream didn't make it any less good—in fact, it made it even better because he could do and say as he pleased without risk of permanent brain damage.

"Fuck, Maka. You're so wet—somethin' you want," he murmured into her ear. He was pressed to her back, his erection pinned against her ass, his hand arced over the curve of her hip and inching up her thigh to rub the slick heat between her legs.

"Makaaaa," he breathed as he rubbed himself against her wantonly.

"Soul!" Her voice sounded off—husky, even deep with want as her hand shot down to grasp his.

"Mmm-Maka," he moaned into her ear as he thrust against her rear a second time. The dream would be getting good soon. Fuck he loved dreams like this.

He started as he felt his hand being thrust back as Maka shot up, causing Soul to follow suit. His eyes widened as he realized that it was Kid rather than Maka in the bed beside him. What the fuck was up with this dream?

Kid glared at him for a moment before gritting out three crucial words:

"I'm. Not. Maka."

Not a dream, not a dream, not a death damned dream! Fuck, had he been…? He looked guiltily at the hand that, moments earlier in his dream, had been exploring Maka. Clearly, that hadn't actually been Maka (if it had he would be dead by now) and his sleepy mind had been fine with superimposing his dream of her onto any available body.

Ugh. Fuck fuck fuck! He just continued staring, frozen in embarrassment as he felt the flush rush up his neck, quick and hot.

"Soul," the Shinigami said flatly. "I don't know what you and Maka do after missions, and quite frankly, I don't care to know, but I would appreciate not acting as her substitute, if you don't mind." The dignity with which Kid spoke such ridiculously embarrassing words was almost comical, and Soul would have laughed if he didn't want to run screaming. He had basically just violated, or at least attempted to violate, one of his best friends in his sleep, by all appearances. Fucking hell. He raked a hand through his hair in agitation, shaking his head. What a nightmare.

"I…I…" he stammered, attempting to find words and failing miserably. "I mean, I was dreaming and in the dream you were—and I mean, I would never—and—uh—fuck man, I was dreaming about Maka. It wasn't—and I—shit, I'm sorry man."

Kid's expression, as unreadable as always in the firelight, never faltered.

"No need to apologize; you were asleep and nothing happened, really. But I suppose this is all the more reason you are best sticking to missions with your meister."

Soul shook his head. Kid getting the wrong idea might end badly for him. Very, very badly; he did not want to come home to a Maka chop. Plus, after that awkwardness, he was pretty sure he owed the Shinigami some version of the truth at minimum. Fuck this was uncool.

"It's not like that, dude. I mean, I wish it was like that, but really, nothin's going on. Not a fucking thing."

"Clearly you are interested."

"Clearly. But all the interest in the world on my end doesn't mean shit without a willing partner. You know how Maka is."

Kid just stared at him for several moments, his yellow eyes disconcerting, before offering him a shrug.

"Perhaps you should try this with her next time."

"I'm not just gonna—"

"I'm pretty sure, if you ask, she won't object." That slight, knowing smile was making him what to punch the Shinigami, as was the ridiculous suggestion. He restrained himself, partially because it wasn't cool to deck your friends, and partially because he'd already done enough to poor Kid tonight, consciously or not. Still, the death god's line of reasoning was absurd. Ask Maka? What? To fuck her? He snorted involuntarily at the thought and ignored Kid's raised eyebrow. Oh yeah, because that wouldn't end with him in a coma.

"I'll just take the floor," Soul mumbled, deciding the conversation had gone on long enough; he just wanted to go back to sleep and forget any of this had ever happened. He grabbed a pillow and the blanket at the foot of the sofabed and, wrapping himself, curled up on the floor. He heard the bed above him shift and figured Kid had decided to go back to sleep as well.

Fuck that was awful—but Kid had seemed so smug at the end. What was the Shinigami getting at? Soul pondered Kid's words as he began to drift back into sleep, his exhaustion retaking him quickly. Maybe he would say something to Maka. Not that, but something. Ask for a date or maybe even a kiss. If he was groping his boss in his sleep, then his feelings for Maka had gone way past any manageable level and Kid had seemed so sure, like he knew something the deathscythe didn't. Suddenly, Soul was dying to find out what and he smiled contentedly as he drifted slowly back into the dream.


	5. Tongues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soul steals Maka's novel and enjoys poking fun at her questionable taste in literature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **You can thank Marsh of Sleep's badfic bingo for this one. I moved this from my other collection because I was a bit tired of people ignoring the warning label. There is second hand smut here, explicit sexual content, rated M/NSFW. You have been warned.**

There was only the briefest knock before her door burst open and he came strutting in, looking down at her with a slight frown. Maka glanced at him out of the corner of one eye before returning her gaze to the book in front of her.

"Hey—you've been holed up in here all day. You're gonna start sprouting mushrooms if you don't move soon. Plus, it's your turn to make dinner and I'm getting hungry." The meister gave no answer from her place on her bed where she lay sprawled out, stomach down.

"Earth to Maka?" Soul leaned over the bed, his voice tinged with annoyance.

"I'll do it in a minute, let me just finish this p—Soul!" she screeched as he snatched up her book and took several steps back. She flipped to her side and looked towards him, seething.

"Give. It. Back." The girl said from between clinched teeth. The white haired boy just shook his head, grinning.

"Wanna see what's so damned interesting." Maka glared at him in warning, reaching beside her for a book that was no longer there. For the moment, she was disarmed; Soul's grin widened at the realization.

"So let's see…" his hand still marked the pages she'd been on as he'd grabbed it, and he scanned down now and settled on a passage. "…their tongues battled for dominance, but it was a battle that she was destined to lose as he shoved his tongue deep inside her mouth." Soul laughed, shaking his head. "'Tongues battled for dominance'—how the fuck would that even work? It's just lame."

"How should I know?" She looked pissed, her green eyes flashing. "It's not like I've tried it. Now give it back."

"What the hell are you reading anyway?" He flipped the book to eye the cover and laughed louder. "Hearts Aflame? Sounds fascinating." Maka's complexion shifted significantly into the magenta end of the spectrum.

"Liz recommended it," she mumbled, the fierceness having drained from her now downturned gaze.

"Then it must be good." He began to scan the book again, skipping to the next page and scanning further. "Ah, here we go. 'She gasped as his thick, rough fingers moved down to ignite the hot throbbing bud of her womanhood'—'da fuck? Why not just say he fingered her cl—"

"SOUL!" she shrieked, bolting upright on the bed and thrusting out her hand in expectation.

"I'm not done," he said, moving farther towards the door in anticipation as she stood up. "'She shuddered as she reached down timidly to grasp his hard, hot, throbbing member. Holy shit, she thought as her hand could not reach around his enormous girth.'" He had backed out the door as he read, avoiding her as she stalked towards him. The scythe maneuvered so that the kitchen table was between them and grinned at her. "'Hard, hot, throbbing member?' Who writes this shit?" She was moving around the table now and he edged the other way, ready to bolt if necessary. But she was a meister; she was faster. She reached him in two angry strides and snatched the book up, then quickly used it to whack him over the head.

"Makaaaa chop!" she shrieked. As he sprawled on the floor below her, she looked down at him triumphantly, her face red with embarrassment and anger.

"Ya know," he smirked up at her lazily. "If you were really that curious, you could have just asked someone."

"A…asked what?"

"To experiment. You know, see if tongues really do battle for dominance or whatever the fuck." Somehow, impossibly, she turned even more red.

"I…I don't…" Maka sputtered. "And anyway, who would I…?"

His only response was to waggle his eyebrows suggestively at her.

"UGH gross!" she screamed in frustration, throwing her book at his head. "KEEP it! And you can make your own damned dinner you… you… pervert!" She stalked off, her door slamming behind her. Soul couldn't decide if he was more amused by the whole thing, annoyed he'd have to make dinner now, or hurt that she found the very idea of practicing with him "gross." Picking himself up off the linoleum, he grabbed the book and placed it on the counter. Well, at least if he made dinner she might forgive him.

As he began to get out the ingredients for curry, he wondered idly if kissing his meister really would involve tongues battling for dominance. Somehow, he doubted it, but he would love to find out. Perhaps with her reading crap like that, some day she might even let him try.


	6. Twenty-one Candles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Maka and Soul get drunk on her twenty-first birthday, will things get out of hand?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So this one was from a tumblr prompt from Chiceit, 21st Birthday celebration afterglow. This is barely NSFW, a very light dusting of smut, but there is still some, so it can't be put into my normal drabble spot. It's really no dirtier than, say, Cabin Fever, though far more fluffy and sweet.**

It finally happened on her twenty-first birthday. They'd been dancing around their feelings for years, hinting, teasing, too afraid to do more, to ruin what was firm and real between them for something that might change everything. Maka, in particular, had always feared crossing that line—and Soul tended to follow her lead.

So they had skirted the line, practically straddling it with all the cuddling and hand holding and sharing their lives in every other possible way, but they had never, never crossed it.

That was, until they finally did.

Black*Star, being Black*Star, had insisted that Maka, as his oldest and most loyal follower, should have a celebration for this landmark occasion, one befitting her status. In the eyes of the would-be god, this of course meant a loud, raucous party complete with ridiculous quantities of alcohol that he had, by some form of wheedling or threat or combination thereof, convinced Kid to throw at Gallows Manor. Black*Star had consequently spent the evening drunk enough to bellow about his godhood in ways he had rarely done since he was 15 and Kid, his weapons, and Tsubaki spent their evening doing damage control, which left Maka and Soul largely to their own devices. It might have been her party, but it was a party, with a lot of booze and loud music and dancing, and no one particularly seemed to care who it had been thrown for just as long as the booze kept flowing.

What no one would have expected, least of all Soul, is that Maka would also drink. A lot. It started when she was handed an innocuous looking glass of orange liquid by a passing waiter shortly after they'd arrived and, curious, had put it to her lips for a sip. At her weapon's raised eyebrow (Maka Albarn didnot drink,) she shrugged.

"It's my twenty-first birthday, Soul. I think I'm allowed to try a drink or two. Aside from which, this seems to be mostly orange juice." She drained the drink in a few minutes and asked for another, getting one for her weapon as well and laughing when she was told the name (it was a Screwdriver), before handing her weapon one when refills arrived.

"Nah, I gotta drive home," he raised his hands to refuse.

"We can crash here—plus one or two drinks will be out of your system by the end of the night. Come on, Soul, please? How many times am I going to turn twenty-one?" Maka was a full adult now and for once in her life, she was going to completely let loose. They were among friends. What harm could there be in a few drinks?

Soul sighed, but complied. It was her birthday, after all.

By the time Maka was on her third such drink and Soul his second, she managed to drag him from the fringes of the room to the dance floor. It was alive with activity, loud trance fusion and techno music blaring, lights spinning. The birthday-meister lost herself in the music, moving and grinding in ways that got no complaint out of her normally reserved weapon since all that bumping and grinding was occurring against him and was far from unpleasant. Another drink for both of them and he was grinding back enthusiastically and made no protest as she suddenly leaned her face up to kiss him, kissing her back with eagerly. It was sloppy and awkward, but they were both too far gone to care, in the music, the lights, the booze, each other.

When Maka tugged at her weapon's hand to lead him away from the dance floor, Soul again did not protest. When she led him down a hall and through a door and he realized that they were now in some sort of large walk in hall closet, he did manage to get out, as she pushed him against a wall.

"Uh, Maka, I don' think—"

He was cut off by her mouth on his and, more importantly and even better, her hand on the front of his jeans, rubbing him in a way that should probably be illegal with how good it felt. He groaned into her mouth and his hands began exploring her body, her chest, her rear. She wiggled and gasped beneath his touch, encouraging him to explore further, to move his mouth away from hers to begin kissing her neck, relishing in her pleased little mewls.

When her hand stopped stroking through fabric to unfasten his jeans and make its way down, quickly finding hot flesh and grasping it eagerly, he moaned against her neck, gasping her name like a prayer and then moving his own hand down to ride up her thigh and over her panties, stroking the fabric softly.

"Soul," she breathed approvingly, her breath hot against his neck, the stink of alcohol on it almost overwhelming. Something in his warm, fuzzy brain began to click, then. Alcohol. Drunk. She was drunk. He was drunk. This wasn't a dream, though he had had countless such dreams. This was real. They had never crossed this line, had never even shared a kiss that wasn't on the cheek, and yet—here they were. Drunk. In a closet. Groping each other. His finger stilled against her panties and this time she groaned questioningly as he moved his hand to pull hers from his pants.

"Soul?"

"I'm—gonna go get us some water," he panted out, hastily zipping up his jeans. "Just, wait here. Alright?"

"What?" She was confused, hurt, it was clear in her tone. Weren't they just—and hadn't they just? And why was he?

"Look," he let out a shaky breath, backing up once, twice, because he really, really didn't want to cut off what had been going on, but he'd be damned if this was going to happen for the first time drunk in a fucking closet. If he was going to be with his meister, then fuck it all, he wanted to be sure this was something she really wanted, not just a result of booze and hormones. Hazy brain or no, he had enough control to reason out that much. "We're both drunk. Let's just—calm down, maybe drink somethin' that won't kill half our brain cells, and then we can—"

"Oh," Maka's face fell further, her eyes meeting the floor. "Right, I guess you sobered enough to remember my total lack of sex appeal." She had thought things were different, but they weren't. Clearly they weren't. She felt broken at the thought; some birthday this was turning out to be.

"Wha?" He was stunned. "That is not what I meant." It was practically a growl and he took a step back towards her.

"Oh?" her green eyes lifted to meet his, flashing, angry at the challenge in his tone. "And what did you mean, Soul?" she practically spat out his name, as if it were a word too vile to be spoken. He clenched a fist and took two more steps until he was hovering over her. The alcohol was still clouding his judgement, but it did not stifle his anger that she would think this was about her not being good enough some how. That was so opposite the truth that he couldn't stop the words from coming.

"Only," his hands were on her shoulders now, gripping them firmly. "that when I do finally have sex with the woman I love, I don't want it to be because we got fuckin' wasted outta our minds in a death damned closet." His face was close to hers and he had to stifle the urge to kiss her again. He was breathing heard, trying to reign in his emotions, reeling from the alcohol, from what he'd just said, what they'd just been doing, all of it.

"Wh—what did you?" Maka's mouth was gaping. "You—love?" she managed to squeak out. They were words she had wanted to hear for years, words she had felt as long, but she had never imagined she would hear them this way. Then again, as her hazy brain began to realign into some sense of reason, she also hadn't imagined her first kiss would be drunk on a dance floor, that she would end up in a closet like this with her weapon on her birthday, but then, the alcohol had left only her wishes intact and her wish had long been to be with him, something that came to the forefront once her inhibitions were left at the door.

"Yeah, I do," he said. "I…" he shook his head, moving to back away, but she took his hands in hers.

"M..me too." She managed, somehow, to keep her eyes on his. "I—yeah, I'm drunk, but that doesn't mean—um—that I don't have those feelings, you know? So yeah."

"Oh," he just looked at her for a long moment. "That's—that's good." He smiled. "That's really good. But, um, I still don't think we should be doin' this, here, now, drunk off our asses."

Maka nodded slowly. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Maybe we could get that water. And, um," she colored brightly, embarrassed through the clearing haze, "Kid told me we could have one of the guest rooms, so we could—mmm—wait up there for awhile and see if, uh, we still, you know." She looked down at her shoes for a minute, then smiled up at him a bit sheepishly.

"Oh, yeah," he ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit. "We could do that. Sure." His own smile was less sheepish than it was hopeful, and as she took his hand to lead him out of the closet, he made no protest. After all, he had promised to follow her anywhere.

It turned out, once the alcohol was largely out of their systems an hour later, they were both still very much willing to continue what they had started earlier and did not hesitate to do so.

The following morning, wrapped up in her weapon's warm, strong arms, Maka couldn't regret having gotten drunk if this was where it led them, couldn't regret what they had done, even if the road here had been bumpy and ridden with potholes. When they did it, their eyes were wide open, the alcohol long gone, but the drinks had granted her a birthday miracle, had finally allowed them to express what both had repressed for far too long.

After that night, every year when Maka's birthday rolled around, they always made their toast with Screwdrivers in hand.


	7. Inked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How will Soul feel about Maka's little habit?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This one is from a prompt from auspicious leader, Soul finds Maka had a badass habit. It is only very lightly smutty. Mostly fluffy.**

She was so secretive about it, how could he have known? Sure, there would periodically be a day or two where she claimed to be too sore to sit much, but she was a meister, sometimes they overdid it. Sure he had caught her in a towel a time or twelve seeing that they lived together, but that part of her was always discretely covered. No, he couldn't have known, had no way to know, really.

Of course, he hadn't seen it until they were dating, until they were finally, blissfully, wholly together, and not even the first time. Then it was dark, or they were under covers, and the positioning did not lend to seeing all of her.

It wasn't until one morning, early into their bedsharing, that it happened. She was asleep on her stomach and, while Maka had always been the earlier riser, Soul found that waking up with morning wood with a meister willing and able to help him with his problem had been significant incentive to change his sleeping habits a touch. This morning, for once, he was awake and aroused and trying to gain her sleepy attention by kissing up and down the length of her. As he kissed down first her shoulder, then back, finally reaching her rear beneath the blanket, he noticed that one of her ass cheeks was suspiciously splotchier and darker than the other, and peeled back the cover for better light. As Maka grunted and stirred at the cool air now hitting her backside, he let out a strangled gasp.

Maka had been inked. Maka Albarn, his newly minted lover, his girlfriend, his prudish little bookworm of a meister, had a tattoo, right smack in the middle of one deliciously curvy ass cheek, a tattoo of him, of all things. Well, not him, but him all the same. It was an intricate depiction of his scythe form, put together with dozens upon dozens of miniature souls. It wasn't finished, either. It looked like the artist had finished the haft and a part of the blade, but there was still a lot of him left to complete the picture.

Soul had to admit, it was about the hottest thing he had ever seen. The hottest thing he could imagine, and his arousal became almost painful. The scythe moved up to press himself against her side, breathing in her ear.

"Makaaah."

"Mmm…whazit? Go back t' sleep."

"But how can I sleep when I just saw what you have on your ass?" He said lowly in her ear, pressing himself into her side to emphasize his point.

Maka made a move to roll over and face him, but he put a hand on her shoulder to still her.

"No, I wanna be able to see it. It's really fucking hot. I can't believe you got inked."

He saw her back flush red and grinned against her ear.

"When did you—"

"I got the first one after we collected our first soul," she was wide awake now, her breath hitching slightly as he began to kiss and suckle her neck enthusiastically. "It was—hard to find someone who would tattoo someone so young, especially without a parent to give the okay. I had to forge Papa's signature and emphasize his position to get a good artist to agree."

"But why?" Hot as it was, it was hard to imagine her at 14 deciding to do such a thing.

"I—I don't know—I wanted to make sure I'd never forget. What we do, it's important, and it was important to me. At first, it was just a line of souls, but eventually—I asked for it to make a picture of your scythe form since this was something you did as much as me, something we did together, and since making you a deathscythe was the goal, you know? At first I would go in for every new soul we collected, but I only go after there are enough to put a dent in the picture anymore."

"I can't believe I never knew," he lifted his lips from kissing shoulder long enough to grumble.

"I never wanted you to know. Why do you think it was on my ass? I didn't want anyone to know, especially not you, at least, not then. It would look pretty bad having a picture of you on my rear, don't you think? I, uh, didn't want you to get the wrong idea." Her flush was back and he smiled, moving back down to her plump bottom to caress this newfound treasure before lavishing it with kisses. After a few minutes of these ministrations, of enjoying the goosebumps he raised and the little sounds of approval she made, he raised his head to look at her silken locks spread around her, covering her back.

"I think I have the wrong idea," he said huskily.

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't," she turned her neck enough to eye him over her shoulder, her seductive little smile setting every nerve on fire.

"Can I watch next time?" he finally asked after a round of kissing every available inch of skin on that side of her body and finally prodding her to turn over and face him. She sat up, then, and they tangled their legs together, hers above, his below, as they faced one another.

"Every time, if you'd like," she smiled softly.

An instant later he was kissing her, or she was kissing him, it hardly mattered, and she was in his lap, him caressing where he knew her ink lay with purpose. Very soon kissing became more, as he had intended all along, and neither could complain about the outcome.

Afterwards, he could only think that that was one hell of a habit she had acquired, and he reveled in the knowledge that his bookworm had always been a badass.


	8. Jailbait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maka and Soul meet at a college party and hit it off. Too bad she's only sixteen. College AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **At the particular request of the lovely and talented Yyeann, I give you this cracky fluffiness. She wanted jailbait SoMa, and jailbait SoMa she shall receive. This really isn't smut, but it edges the line, so it's here to be safe.**

They met at a party. She had been dragged there by her new roommate Blair, who insisted that no red-blooded college student could be caught dead in the library on the first Saturday night of the semester. The party and venue both let much to be desired—it was held in an apartment complex near campus, a few two bedroom units together seeming to have agreed to hold this first weekend bash. There were people everywhere, on the balconies, on the front strip of grass, pressed together into the two apartments. The music was loud and garish and uncoordinated, the stink unbelievable, sweat and booze and vomit. Maka would have much preferred the library and had decided to spend the night as far from the maddening crowd as she could manage. In this case, that meant the side of the building in the narrow gap between two complexes where they kept the garbage. She had spotted the alley after slinking away from Blair, who was busy getting her grind on on the makeshift dance floor, her barely there attire edging ever closer to indecency. Since she seriously doubted even the most drunk and desperate would choose to make out next to the garbage, it seemed like the perfect getaway.

As she rounded the large bin and noticed a figure in the shadows, she thought, at first, that she must have been wrong about how desperate people could get, but he was alone. He started as she came into view, looking up and pushing off from his slouch against the wall to stand. Once he was in the light, she almost did a double take at his appearance—white hair and red eyes shone under the electric lamp that illuminated the small holding area. Probably a trick of the half-light, but that didn't make it any less eerie.

"Oh—oh! Sorry, didn't realize this spot was taken," she spun on her heel to leave.

"I don't own it," he said with a snort. "Though it fuckin' stinks over here. You're probably better off leavin'." She turned around, not sure if she was meant to say something back or not, but unable to stop herself.

"I know it stinks, that's the point," she huffed. "I thought I'd have the place to myself."

He shrugged in response. "That makes two of us, great minds or whatever."

"You get dragged here by your roommate, too?" She asked suddenly; curiosity had always been her Achilles heel.

"Something like that," he admitted.

"Well, then," she said finally. Deciding that he seemed tolerable enough for the moment, and that if he tried anything she had adequate self-defense training to deal with him, she leaned on the wall across from him. "I'm Maka," she smiled slightly.

"Soul," he returned.

"It really does stink back here, doesn't it?" She said after a long pause, wrinkling her nose.

"Yep," he agreed shortly. Well, this one was talkative. So be it, she'd tried. Pulling a book out of the small bag slung over her shoulder, she settled more comfortably against the wall and cracked it open. Maka Albarn was always prepared, after all. She looked up as she heard the chortle across from her.

"What?" she asked, one fine blonde eyebrow raised as she took in his amused expression.

"Nothin'," he replied after a moment, and she shrugged and lowered her eyes to the book again.

This time, he started snickering.

"WHAT?" she hissed as she looked up, her eyes narrowed. He was not just snickering but outright laughing. He raised a hand to her as he tried to catch his breath, then managed to get out between gasps for air.

"What kind… of nerd…brings a book…to a fucking…party?" She wasn't sure what came over her just then, but his laughter and that infuriatingly superiour

expression of his made something in her snap. She strode over the few steps

between them and, without warning, slammed the spine of her paperback down

onto his skull.

He stood up straight at that, glaring down at her (he was tall when he wasn't

slouching) and rubbing his head.

"What the fuck was that?" he growled.

She shrugged, backing up and smiling sharply.

"I just figured the loser hiding by the garbage bins has no room to call anyone names."

"Says the other loser hiding by the garbage bins."

"Touche."

He shook his head. "Look, Maka, right? That can't be good for your eyes. Maybe—"

Whatever he was going to say was cut off by a squeal. "THERE YOU ARE!" Even though she'd only known her for a week, she would recognize that high-pitched whine anywhere. Blair had found her. "Whatcha—Oh—oh! Maka, you sly little kitty. I'll juz' leave this here with you and you can get back to your little boy toy," she walked up, slightly wobbly, and set a pitcher at Maka's feet, offering an exaggerated wink, before tottering back out of the alley on her too high heels.

"What—was that?" the boy across from her had his jaw hanging open and Maka was positive he had gotten more than an eyeful of her barely clothed roommate.

"That was Blair, my roommate."

"Ah, your kidnapper."

"Something like that, yeah." Maka said absently as she eyed the pitcher at her feet. It was filled to brim with a brightly colored liquid that looked innocuously like orange juice. Possibly, Blair was just being solicitous, making sure she wouldn't get thirsty. She did that, sometimes, Maka had found—she was extremely mothering, when she wasn't busy being provoking or salacious. She picked up the pitcher and sniffed it. It smelled fairly orangy. Well, then. She took a sip. It tasted like orange juice. And she was thirsty, and she was stuck here until Blair decided it was time to leave (and had sobered up sufficiently to do so) since it wasn't quite close enough to campus to walk alone at night and Blair had driven. Well, then. Seeing a spare crate against the wall opposite her chance companion, she sat on top of it, then took a few healthy swigs from the pitcher.

"Uh, wait!" His voice was suddenly close and she blinked, noticing that he was hovering above her. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. That's probably—"

"It's just orange juice," she huffed indignantly, taking several more large swigs that had his eyes widening in surprise.

"That's—" he began to shake his head and she took several more large swigs defiantly. A quarter of the large pitcher was gone, and she smiled up at him contentedly. He just let out a loud breath and shook his head again.

"Whatever," he said finally, shoving his hands in his pockets. She felt a little bad. He had seemed almost concerned, and really, as he stood nearer under the light, he was pretty cute. Her belly felt suddenly warm and her head a bit light. His eyes really were red, weren't they? Fascinating. And white hair. Odd, but striking. He was still looking down at her when she remembered her manners.

"You want some?" she lifted the pitcher and noticed it was sloshing a bit. Was her hand that wobbly or was it the world? She laughed, the warm feeling spreading to her toes. Definitely the world. Hum, maybe it wasn't just orange juice. Well, so what? She enjoyed the thick comforting haze of it, enjoyed being able, for once, to do as she pleased.

Soul began to shake his head then looked down at her, seeming to weigh something in his mind for a moment. "You know what? Why the fuck not?" He took the pitcher and drank, gulping it down to the halfway point. She watched in fascination as his throat worked down the liquid, Adam's apple bobbing. He slammed the half full pitcher down next to her as he finished, the liquid sloshing dangerously, and then wiped his mouth on a sleeve before grinning down again. She noticed for the first time that his mouth was full of teeth too sharp to be natural and wondered idly what those teeth would feel like on her skin, eyeing them in fascination. This was a side of herself that she always forced down, always repressed, and to think these thoughts, have these feelings with abandon, was downright liberating. And him, there was something about him she couldn't pinpoint. She wanted to know more, to feel more.

He took a seat next to her on the crate and they passed the pitcher back and forth, striking up a conversation about what a fucking drag college parties were and how even smelling garbage was better than that throng of drunk, sweaty, random horniness and terrible music. She babbled a bit about how much she was looking forward to earning her degree in English and he snorted and told her that her major sucked, which earned another half hearted thwap on the head with her novel. Finally, as they finished the pitcher, Maka noticed the music pulsing faintly in the background and her mouth split into another grin.

"Hey, uh, Soul? You wanna dance?" He didn't answer, but just pulled her up and close. The song was too fast for this type of dancing but neither seemed to care and when he she felt his mouth begin to work against the skin of her neck, she could not complain. It turned out those teeth felt every bit as sinful against her skin as she thought they might and she shivered and moaned slightly at the feel of them. As his mouth finally reached hers and he kissed her, it was warm and wet and his teeth nibbling against her bottom lip was absolutely maddening, and while her mind was hazy and she couldn't be quite certain, she was pretty sure it was her who had dragged him against the wall where she was currently caged by his arms, his body pressed warmly against her own. That his hands were beginning to roam into previously unexplored territory, that hers were also similarly finding new things to have and hold, these things could not bother her because it was all so warm and wonderful and felt so right. And if there was a nagging little voice that reminded her that she barely knew this boy, well, she quashed it down in favor of the feel of his mouth hot on hers, the feel of his tongue lapping at her skin, his hands roaming and teasing, and gave in to what the rest of her was telling her was not only right but crucial.

—-

Soul didn't know what had come over him, really he didn't. He was slumped on the ground against the alley wall, a girl slumped with him, her body warm and soft against his own. There was still music pulsing from somewhere near by, but it was fainter now, and the alley was still dark, only the over head light casting a glow that made his head pound in protest. Where was…? Oh, yeah. Yeah, that's right. In a fit of lust or madness or he wasn't even sure what, he'd said to hell with it and decided to drink half the pitcher of screwdriver that the unsuspecting girl slumped next to him had unwittingly gulped down. She was just so damned—what was the word? Cute? Violent? Fascinating? Nerdy? Hot? It was all of those things, and none of them, he couldn't even say. He'd just felt suddenly compelled to go down the rabbit hole with her. Soul didn't drink, didn't drink on purpose because he hated losing control, but for once in his godamned life he didn't want to be the responsible one. And really, he didn't regret where it had led since she had come on to him, if his fuzzy memories served, and the resulting make out session complete with extremely heavy petting was far from unwelcome. For whatever reason he couldn't fathom at the moment, he likedthis girl. Really liked her, just in the short time he'd known her, and he wanted to take her out for a real date, hell, just date her if she was up for it. He could never remember being this interested. It was almost surreal. He felt something vibrate near him and realized it was coming from her and as she mumbled and snuggled in closer, he decided to fish it from her pocket. Getting no protest, she saw the caller identified as "Papa" and forewent answering. When the vibration stopped, he programmed in his own number and sent himself a text so he would have hers. This had been far too good for a one night fling.

As he worked the phone back into her pocket and she murmured again in protest, shifting against him in her annoyance, he heard footsteps round the corner into the alley and instinctively tightened an arm around her. When a bright blue head of hair came into view under the light, the figure turning to the wall across from him and audibly unzipping his pants, Soul groaned involuntarily.

"Wha?" the blue haired menace whirled, his pants still undone. Fortunately for all involved, his equipment was still in his pants. The other boy blinked down at him, scratching his head.

"Soul, bro, is that you? I've been lookin' for you all night, man. What the fuck you doin' out here? I just came out to take a le—Oh, ho!" he spotted the figure slumped against him, her features obscured by a mass of blonde hair, must have taken in that both of their clothes being askew, because his mouth twisted into a leer.

"Am I interruptin' something, dude?"

"No," Soul snapped, irritated. This was the very last thing he needed. At his too loud voice, Maka stirred against him and sat up. "S..soul?" She questioned, looking confused.

"Wait—wait—JAILBAIT, is that you?" Maka's head snapped up to look at the newcomer, and her jaw dropped in seeming disbelief.

"Bl—Black*Star?"

"OH MY GOD, IT IS YOU! Fuck, Pigtails, what are you doing here with him? Oh my fuck this is sweet! I can't believe you were doing the nasty with Jailbait next to the fucking garbage!" Black*Stat started to laugh uproariously. He was clearly drunk, so he'd probably forget about this in the morning, but that wasn't really the problem.

"Look, asshole, for one, we did not 'do the nasty'," he felt compelled to defend this girl's honor or whatever, partially because it was true (although they'd come pretty damned close, admittedly,) and partially because she seemed truly distraught, her mouth opening and closing in confusion. "For two, why the fuck do you keep calling her jailbait?" Yeah, she looked young, but fuck him for insulting his date—erm—make out buddy—whatever.

"Look, Soul," Black*Star grinned down at him maniacally, fists on his hips, "for one, if you didn't do the nasty, then you'd better thank your lucky stars man, because for two, she is jailbait. Albarn's only 16," and he began to laugh uncontrollably, seeming to find the entire situation hilarious.

"Black*Star," the jailbait in question growled from beside him before tossing his arm aside and standing up to face her accuser, fists clenched at her sides. And it was Soul's turn to gape, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly as he looked from Black*Star to Maka and back.

"Since when is this any of your fucking business, DorkStar?" She practically growled at him and he shrugged.

"Whatever, dude. Just, uh," he looked down at Soul. "A word of advice? You should probably stay away from her. Her dad is an overprotective ass, and he teaches here, so—"

"UGH!" Soul groaned, putting his head in his hands as he heard the footsteps move away. He heard her move back close to him, heard her slide back down the wall to sit beside him, felt her hand tentatively on his shoulder.

"Soul?" she said softly.

"Is it true?" he asked from under his hands. Fuck, how had it all gone to shit so fast? Fucking Black*Star…

"That my papa teaches here? Well, yeah, but…"

"No, not that," he looked up, meeting her wide, beautiful green eyes. He could get lost in those eyes. Only, really, he couldn't. Or shouldn't. "That you're sixteen."

"Um… yes?" She smiled sheepishly. "But I'll be seventeen in two days."

He groaned and put his head back in his hands. It fucking figured that the first girl he'd had this level of interest for in…well…ever would actually be jailbait. Fuck.

"I can't believe I took advantage of a drunk fucking minor," he muttered to himself. "What the fuck are you even doing here? How are you even.."

"I graduated early. And I'm emancipated, legally. And the age of consent in this state is 16. Plus, it's not like we actually had sex." Her voice practically cracked at the last and as he hazarded a glance her way, he noticed that while she was now as red as his eyes, she didn't seem upset.

"You were drunk," he said. God he was an asshole.

"So were you."

"I knew what I was drinking, you didn't."

"I figured it out pretty fast, Soul, I'm not a moron. I just—" she was twiddling her fingers. "I just, I don't know, didn't care, I guess." She sighed and he hung his head again.

"So, uh, Soul, I was wondering—" she seemed fidgety, nervous.

"I'm 22," he said, because he could sense where this was going.

"What?"

"I'm 22. I turned 22 last month."

"So?"

"So, I'm way too old for you?"

"Who said I was interested?"

"You're not then?" he looked up at her skeptically, and if he were honest, with more than a little disappointment. He was interested, very interested, he just… shouldn't be.

"That's not the point."

"What is your point, Maka?" He finally raked his hand through his already mussed hair in frustration. "Because I'll be damned if—" before he could finish, her mouth was muffling his words, warm and insistent and, jailbait or no, he couldn't help responding in turn. The kiss was hot, intense, and when they broke away, both were panting.

"Maka, we shouldn't—" he growled.

"My Mama was 22 when she met my Papa, you know."

"Wha?" This girl was insane. What did that have to do with—

"And my Papa? He was 16. That didn't end so well, but you know what? I'm willing to bet I can do better. Wonder if you could?" Her eyes met his, challenging. This girl was so strange. And passionate. And bookish. And strange. And somehow, he wanted to accept that challenge in her eyes. He wanted it very much.

"Mmmm," he said non-committally. "Tell you what. What do you say I give you a ride home, and we can talk about it over coffee tomorrow."

"Alright, " she said brightly, looking down at him with a warm smile and offering her hand. He took it, and hand in hand, they walked out of the alley.

It had been quite the night, getting drunk off his ass, making out in a garbage filled alley, waking up with a pounding headache, finding out that the girl he'd just come within a hairsbreadth of doing a lot more than fondling was actually sixteen, figuring out that in spite of all that he was actually ridiculously interested in this feisty, smart little thing. Fuck him, fuck the world, if he wasn't about to start dating jailbait, but for the life of him, as he felt her warm little hand in his, he just couldn't bring himself to care.


	9. The Specimen Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps sex at school wasn't the best idea after all. Written for SoMa NSFW Week Day 1 prompt, Caught.

The first time they had sex, it was like spontaneous human combustion.  There had been no declaration of feelings, no sweet sappy I love you, no slow progression from kissing to foreplay to more, no rounding of the bases, no.  It all happened in one fell swoop; they had been a ticking time bomb for a year, probably two, and it was bound and determined to happen eventually.  All it took was a little fight, one little fight, about something stupid, something neither could remember later—who had burned the curry, whose night it was to cook, who forgot to shop—something completely mundane and idiotic.  They had been pining for each other for the past two or three years, each secretly believing that the other had no interest, each secretly longing and hoping and _wanting._  The pent up tension between them was so thick he could have cut it with his scythe blade, so it was no wonder when one of them finally snapped.  They never could agree on who kissed first.  Each had wanted the other to _just shut up already_ and the overwhelming gravity of their mutual, unspoken attraction had done the rest, smashing their lips together like two asteroids on a collision course, smashing apart their little world of misunderstandings in that instant with sudden, perfect clarity.

What followed was wordless and feral, driven by long repressed need suddenly coming to a boil and overflowing the pot.  It was pure and animal and spectacular and when they were done, they knew it was forever, that this was something they would never want to stop.

It was a mere two months before graduation when it happened, and in the following weeks, they couldn’t get enough of each other.  Every chance, every moment they could, they came together.  At home, their coupling was near constant, something Blair at first found amusing until the noise and vigor tired even her patience and she decided to give them a wide berth for awhile.  At school, they found space and time anywhere and everywhere they could—in the janitor’s closet during free period, in a dark, empty classroom during lunch, deep in the woods during partner training—Soul had convinced his meister that it helped their resonance, and therefore counted.  These days, Maka wasn’t much inclined to disagree with anything that involved sex with her weapon, so she simply didn’t.  They were a month from graduating anyway.  Thirty minutes of training lost hardly mattered at this point.

This time, it was only kissing.  Well, that and groping, lots of groping.  Well, perhaps more than groping. They were in an empty hallway, the scythe pinning his meister against the door of the specimen room next to the specialized science classroom; the meister’s legs were wrapped around her weapon’s middle, and he was grinding against her through their clothing, quiet moans escaping from each of them.  His mouth was latched onto her neck greedily, her hands were tangled in his hair possessively, and it was getting close to that time when they would either need to stop or find some place slightly less out in the open.  Neither of them were much inclined to stop, but before they could do more, they heard voices.

“Shit!” Soul swore under his breath as he unlatched himself from his meister.

“We need to—“ Maka began, unwrapping her legs from around his waist to plant them on the floor, but before she could finish, she was interrupted by a click behind her and tumbled into the dark little specimen room.  The meister caught her weapon’s devious grin just before the door clicked softly behind him, shutting them both in.  An instant later, he was pressed against her again in the darkness, his lips on hers, tongues sliding together desperately, clothing being frantically removed.  Yes, they each had concluded, this would work.  The science classroom was only occasionally used, and the specimen room rarely saw the light of day.  It was perfect.

 

* * *

 

The group of meister candidates had only recently shuffled into the science classroom and taken their seats when it happened.  Just as Professor Stein was about to explain the parameters of the experimental lesson, the classroom was filled with static from the speakers that were hooked to the microphone in the specimen room, followed by a rather loud moan.  

Students and professor all looked around in confusion as the moan was followed by voices over the speaker.

"Fuck what was that?" The voice was low, rumbling, and decidedly out of breath.

"That's my hand.” Another voice answered, much higher pitched but still breathy.

"Not that--I hit my hand on something--hurts like a bitch," the low, decidedly male voice came again.

"Mmmm--" there was some sounds of shuffling.  "This make it better," the higher pitched voice, probably that of a woman, said huskily.

The deeper voice let out a gasp and a strangled moan and several of the students in the room went scarlet as others strained to see through the darkened glass.

"Well, then."  Stein offered cheerfully.  "It appears that the specimen room is--erm--already occupied," he peered down at the covered cage he had brought in with him.  "So, change of plans, let's see what we can read about the souls of the two subjects currently using the room, shall we?"

“Um, professor?”  A girl in the back, a brunette whose once creamy white skin was now bright red, put up her hand.

“Yes, Nina,” Stein answered boredly.  There were still gasps and pants coming through the speakers, but he ignored them.  

“Uh, isn’t it--I mean, shouldn’t we--”  

Her stammering was interrupted the low voice growling out “there, fuck, there.”

“Mmmm,” the woman’s voice replied, self-satisfied.  “I think that’s enough.”

There was something like a whine from her companion, and sounds of shuffling fabric.  

“Don’t pout, I think it’s time for the ma--” the higher voice began, but was cut off at the end and gasped.

“Come ‘ere,” the man growled, followed by banging and sounds of commotion.  

“S--aaaah!” The female gasped out as the clammer continued.

The poor girl in the other room became, impossibly, even more red before she finally stammered out over the shuffling, “Shouldn’t we go professor, this is--”

“A fantastic learning opportunity.”  Stein cut her off, his glasses glinting coldly above his bored expression.  

There was another low “fuuuuuck” from the man, followed by “ahhhhh!” from the woman before they degenerated into panting and gasping and something that sounded like lip smacking along with strange, shuffling noises again.  

Stein ignored it, continuing.  “So.  What can you tell me about the people in the specimen room?”  His gaze swept across the dozen other people in the room, all NOT students with potential soul perception, all varying shades of red, gazes up, down, anywhere but on him or each other.  

“Uh, well,” a short, stocky blonde boy put up his hand.  “There’s a dude, and--uh--a chick.”

“Brilliant deduction, Jones,” Stein intoned dryly.  

“And they’re--uh--having sex?”  Jones went on.  

“Clearly, you have outstanding observational talent.”  There were a few snickers, earning a sour look from Jones towards a couple of boys behind him.  “Anyone else?”

The entire class settled their eyes on the specimen room, looks of concentration mingling with still red faces.  The moaning was getting louder.

“Anyone?” Stein’s gaze swept the room again.

“I…” a girl with red hair raised her hand.  “I can--can tell it’s--two people but,” she shook her head.  Stein called on a few other students, but none of them seemed able to tell anything about who was in the other room.  Most claimed they couldn’t see their souls at all.  

There was a loud gasp from speakers.  “Oh my Death, Soul!” the woman cried out.  “Soul!” she gasped again.  There was a low, answering moan of “Maka, fuck, Maka,” and the entire group burst into talk and titters.

“Well, then,” Stein cleared his throat over the renewed clamor and repeated name moaning coming from the speakers.  “It would seem our subjects have outed themselves.  Time to return to the original lesson, I suppose.  If you’ll all excuse me, I’ll get it set up.”  With that, the tall professor grabbed up the covered cage and swept from the room.  

Twenty seconds later, the moaning from the speakers halted abruptly as the lights in the specimen room flare to life, the collected students titters and gasps becoming even louder, one girl shouting “oh my Death!” even as the girl in the specimen table did the same because there, right there on the large metal table in the center of the small specimen room was sprawled the Last Death Scythe himself, Soul “Eater” Evans, stark naked and flushed red, and straddling him, equally naked and red, was his meister, Maka albarn.  

They seemed stunned into inaction, still connected, until Stein cleared his throat from his place in the doorway.  Suddenly, it was as if he’d flipped another switch, because the two scrambled apart quickly, the death scythe groaning “fuck, fuck me, fuck,” as he gathered up his clothes, struggling to shuck on his pants quickly, not even bothering with boxers.  Next to him, his meister was doing the same as she hyperventilated, grabbing up shirt and skirt and throwing his jacket over it all in her haste.  The death scythe had shoved their undergarments and shoes under one arm as both faced the professor in the doorway.

“I..w..we’re so sorry, p..professor,” Maka managed to stammer out. “We--I--just--please, please don’t tell my Papa?”  The poor death scythe meister was red and almost shaking she was so distraught. Her weapon had a hand on her shoulder, his face calmer now, but his red eyes flashed with determination; he would protect his meister, even from this.  

“Oh,” Stein waved a hand dismissively.  “It’s no trouble.  You’ve done me a favor, really.”  Meister and weapon exchanged a confused look as he continued.  “You have nothing to worry about--my lips are sealed,” he smiled slightly and Maka let out an audible sigh of relief.  

“Thank you so much, professor!  I’m--”

“But,” he cut her off, raising his hand to flip another switch.  “I fear I cannot speak for everyone else.” Suddenly, the one way mirror shimmered into two way mode and the class on the other side who were all still staring, giggling, and pointing became visible.  Two heads swiveled towards the mirror, stunned.

“Fuck,” the scythe breathed.  His meister just gasped.  They blinked at the crowd, completely scarlet, for several seconds before Maka grabbed her weapon’s hand and muttered an excuse to the professor before pulling Soul past Stein and out the door.

No one saw the pair for several days, and rumors flew.  By some miracle, Spirit did _not_ actually kill the younger death scythe when the rumors reached his ears, and the two went on to graduate whole and intact.

 

Years later, as both meister and weapon worked for the school they had once attended, rumor had become myth.  According to Shibusen lore, The Last Death Scythe and his meister have had sex in every available space, some plausible, some downright absurd:  the janitor’s closet, every classroom imaginable, the training grounds, the locker rooms, the cafeteria, even the Death Room.  For a time, the rumors amused the scythe and embarrassed his meister, but many years later, long together, long settled, they were both amused when they overheard the stories still told about their exploits.  While some were true, only one was confirmed, but by this time, they had become legendary for the one time they were actually caught.


	10. Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soul's present for Maka's eighteenth birthday isn't quite what she was expecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another offering for SoMa NSFW Week 2014. Marshofsleep gets the blame for this one, and rebornfromash and ilarual all the praise for helping make it suck a little less. It's not terrible, but that's about all I can say about that. Writing in second person is weird and hard, and this was meant to be way more crack and way less smut, but so it goes.
> 
> I am also dedicating this Birthday fic to awesomeasusual, since it is her birthday today and she is, indeed, awesome.

You never expected your eighteenth birthday to go quite like this.  When you stumble home from the rather raucous party held in your honor only a few doors down, you and your weapon clinging to each other for wobbly support, you're both ridiculously drunk.  It was an accident on your part, not having realized that the spiked punch was more spike than punch, but for him, it was purposeful.  Soul rarely drinks, and you can't fathom why he did tonight, but at this point, your mind is hazy and you're feeling wobbly and giggly and far too good to care.   

As you both stagger through the door, you fling your arms around the boy next to you, dragging at his neck to kiss him, your fingers tangling into his hair. You're glad, for once, he’d listened and foregone the gel--his pallid locks are silken beneath your fingertips instead of stiff and sticky as they would normally be. His lips are warm and soft, and his tongue feels hot in your mouth as it slides against yours.  You can taste the whisky on his breath, but you don’t mind because it means you’re tasting _him_.   

You force your weight against him, pushing him against the door and pressing your own small, lithe body against his wiry frame; you’d promised yourself when you officially became an adult, you would be together, and you intend to make good on that promise.  You’ve been dating for six months and you’ve fooled around in every other possible way, hot and heavy, and you feel giddy at the prospect of finally, _finally_ taking this final step together.  

He pulls his mouth from yours and you're surprised for just an instant, but then his mouth is hot on your neck and you can’t stop the little mewl of pleasure that escapes because it feels so good.  You shiver at the feel of his tongue teasing the sensitive skin above your collarbone, shiver at his hot breath against your ear as he whispers.  

“Go shower.  Wanna make sure everything is ready.”  You can’t help it, your shiver becomes a shudder at the implications as you nod slightly, reluctantly pushing yourself out of his arms.  Before you pull back completely, you slide one hand down from his hair, down his chest, trailing it along his muscled abdomen until you reach the hem of his jeans.  You trail if farther, palming the front of his pants, stroking the hardness of his arousal in silent promise as you meet his heated gaze. 

“I won’t be long,” you breathe as you back away, offering a smile you can only hope is as sultry as you feel.  As you turn your back on him, your smile widens.  You can feel in his soul how much he wants to follow you, to grab you, to fling you on his bed and have his way with you, and that feeling of want, his overwhelming want, is both delicious and frightening.  Nervous anticipation fills you, causing your stomach to flutter as you close the bathroom door behind you, locking it for good measure because you need time to collect yourself, to cut through the haze of alcohol and lust.  You’re drunk, but even still, you know you don’t want your mutual sexual debut to be some drunken romp; when you give yourselves to each other, you want it to be with eyes wide open, fully awake and aware.  You will accept nothing less, for him or for yourself.   

You run the shower and step in, letting the water stream over you.  It's hot, almost unbearably so, but you refuse to turn it down; you need this, the clarity of the heat.  It scalds your skin, helps to scrub the alcohol from your system, and as you step from the shower, red and glistening, you feel refreshed and ready because the haze is largely gone but _you still want this._  In truth, you’ve always wanted this.  It's been a long time since you’ve known your weapon is nothing like your father, nothing like anyone else, since you've known he's _yours._ You debate simply walking into the living room as you currently are, but think better of it; there is a certain pleasure in unwrapping, revealing slowly, you’ve discovered in your time together, and you would hate to deny that pleasure to your partner or yourself.  So you replace the obscenely sheer strip of red cloth that masquerades as panties you had worn just for this occasion, along with the matching bra, and cover it with the big, fluffy blue bathrobe hanging from the hook on the door.  The fact that the robe belongs to Soul has you snuggling into its warmth, basking in his scent still clinging to the fabric.  You fully intend to smother yourself in his scent later, and the thought makes you smile softly.  Yes, you’re ready for this.   

When you make your way to the living room, you notice that your weapon is lounging on the couch, legs spread out on the floor in front of him, shoulders slouched against the backrest, arms flung to either side on the back of the couch.  As he hears your soft footsteps against the hardwood, he sits up straight and turns his head.  He looks up at you with a goofy grin, the type of smile you’ve only seen when he's either very drunk or very tired, and you can’t help but to wonder if he’s smiling at you or at some inner monologue you could listen in on if you really wanted to.  You don’t try, because you notice the perfectly wrapped package in his lap and figure it would be best not to ruin the surprise.  You're pretty sure he wrapped it himself, a wonder he was able to do it so nicely while drunk, but hopefully he has mostly sobered as you have.  He always was better at holding his liquor than you.  The silken red box and perfectly tied black silk ribbon match his color scheme, black jeans, red t-shirt, black leather.  He looks good, but then, he always looks good.  He pats the cushion next to him, indicating his wish for you to sit, and you comply, careful that your robe remains tied, that you don’t show too much skin, not just yet.  

“So I, uh, gotcha somethin’,” he says with that same goofy smile.  “‘s sorta delicate, so you might not wanna move the box.”  He taps the side of the the box lightly for emphasis and the smile widens.  You feel an odd mix of smugness and nervous anticipation in his soul and wonder at just what he’s gotten you.  Figuring there's no need for further suspense, you pull at the ribbon so that it unties and slides carelessly into his lap, before lifting the lid, leaning over to peer inside and claim your prize.  And oh, what a prize.

You stifle a gasp, your hands flying to your mouth because, while you hadn’t quite known what to expect, you hadn’t expected _that_.  The bottom of the box is false, and inside is your boyfriend’s unzipped fly, his penis standing at attention amidst a nest fabric and white hair, pillowed against his testicals.  There's a red ribbon tied around his erect manhood, and something gold dangling from one silken string. 

“Is that your…” 

“Yep.”

“In a…”

“Yep.  You can touch it, if you want.  It’s yours, now. All of it,” his proud smirk is both infuriating and endearing, and you can’t tell if you're more amused or aroused.  The two feelings battle for dominance before amusement wins and you laugh. And laugh.  And _laugh._  Before long, tears are streaming down your face as you clutch your middle, your mirth uncontrollable, unstoppable because your boyfriend has just _given you his penis_ and you have plans for it now, oh yes.   

“At least untie it,” your weapon pouts slightly, clearly not achieving the reaction he had hoped for, and you manage to stifle your laughter, wiping your tears with the back of one hand before using the other to reach into the box and carefully, so carefully, untie the silken ribbon.  You notice that his once proudly standing member has wilted and feel a little bad, but only just a little.  He must still be _very_ drunk to have done this--this is not the type of thing sober Soul would even consider, it reeks far too strongly of Black*Star--and, as much as you’d hoped to finally enjoy each other fully tonight, you refuse to do so with an intoxicated partner.  You might be angry with him for ruining what you’d hoped to be the best night of your life if you weren’t still so diverted.

As the ribbon falls away, the golden object slides down.  You take it up into your fingers, sliding it off the remaining ribbon, to bring it to your face.  It's a gold ring, small and delicate, the outside imprinted around with intertwined music notes and feathers.  Inside, it’s engraved in a flowing script:  yours now and forever.  You smile slightly at the ring, your amusement fading entirely because it is beautiful and sweet, then move your eyes to him, your smile widening. 

“It’s a promise ring,” he looks serious for the first time since you got home.  “I, uh, well, I know you wanted to--well--you know, for your birthday and all, and I just--I don’t know--I wanted you to have this, to remind you that I’m yours, Maka, no matter what.  Been yours since I became your weapon, gonna be yours as long as you want me.”   He's so earnest, in contrast to the open box exposing his now completely flaccid dick, that you almost laugh again, but his words mean too much for that.  His words have always come easier when he's drunk, something you both love and hate, and you can’t help it, you throw your arms around him and pepper his face with kisses because you love him, have always loved him, will always love him, and even when he's drunk and stupid, he is yours, your weapon, your boyfriend, your partner, your everything.  

“Thank you,” you whisper softly against his cheek.  You pull back to grin at him and he grins back stupidly.  He takes the ring from your hand and you let him slide it on your finger gladly before snuggling against his side and peering into the still open box.

“Don’t worry,” you say, and it’s probably a good thing he can’t see your smile just now because it’s full of mischief.  “I plan to use this too, since it’s mine now.”  You reach a hand in to stroke it softly for emphasis, causing him to throw his head back and groan.  You might not be willing to take that last step together tonight, but that doesn’t mean you can’t fool around a bit, and since he has so kindly gifted you with his cock, you fully intend to have fun with his generosity.

It also doesn’t mean you won’t make him suffer for this silliness, but that can come later.

After making him remove the ridiculous box along with his clothing, you insist he keep still as you stand and untie your (his) bathrobe, letting it pool on the floor around your feet.  His eyes glaze over with lust, and you can see that you have the attention of his (your) cock now, which is what you were hoping for.  You ask him to remove your panties and he complies, sliding them slowly down your legs, and causing you to shiver in anticipation as his calloused fingers run down, down, down, his hair tickling against your thighs as he reaches your feet.  You step out of the sheer cloth and push his head back up, forcing his shoulder against the couch with your hand before straddling his lap.  Your arousal is almost unbearable now; feeling the heat and ache acutely, you settle your folds onto his cock lengthwise, his tip sliding against your clit deliciously as you begin to move.  This is sinfully close to what you want, something you’ve done only once before, and you throw your head back and moan at the repeated contact, shuddering as he growls your name and cups your ass firmly to steady you against him.  

He tries to maneuver you on his lap and you know what he wants, what he’s trying to do.  He wants all of you, you've discussed this, and you want it too, but not like this, not with him still so so drunk, so you grab his wrists behind you and shake your head as you look into his eyes.

“Maka,” he breathes.  “Please--I thought--”

“Not tonight,” you remove one hand from a wrist and bring it up to stroke his cheek lovingly.  “You’re drunk.  Another night, but not tonight.”  He just nods, though he looks disappointed.  You remove your other hand from his wrist and slide against his stiff cock once more; his disappointment is instantly forgotten as he moans at the feeling.  You move against him over and over again, careful, controlled, because you are so wet and he is so hard that it would be easy, so easy, to make a wrong move, for him to slip inside of you, and part of you hopes that you will slip up because the thought of surrounding him fully tears a moan from your lips.  You focus on the feel of his length along your slit, of his tip twitching against your clit, focus on his deep voice grunting and swearing and moaning your name, and it's fantastic and delicious and torturous because it feels _so damned good_ ,and yet he’s there, _right there_ , and you want him, but not like this, and as you come closer and closer to your release, it takes everything in you not to throw your resolve to the wind and take him fully, feel him inside of you as you’ve wanted to do for so long.  As he finally comes with your name on his lips, twitching and spurting against your throbbing clit, the motion pushes you over the edge and you grip his arms tightly as you shout his name in answer, throwing back your head as your core pulses in delicious waves.  

You collapse against him and smile against his chest, feeling safe and whole and sated in his arms.  Soon, very soon, you will claim the rest of your birthday gift, will claim him as yours entirely, but for tonight, you are satisfied.

You don’t let him off easy, in the end.  Since he has so generously given you his dick in a box, you decide to make use of it.  You torture him a bit, having him put his dick in all manner of places and on all manner of things where it doesn’t really belong.  In a hot dog bun. Stuffed into the end of a shot glass.  Inside fruit.  You have tormented him for a good week with your commands, asking him to put his dick just about everywhere but the one place you both want it most, before you finally relent.  You ask him to play piano with his cock when the music room is empty one afternoon and he complies with an embarrassed laugh--you are surprised at how well he is able to pick out a simple tune, and impressed enough to reward him for his efforts.  

When the reward comes later that night, you both agree that it was well worth the wait.


	11. Bathroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for SoMa week 2014 prompt Bathroom--Unlocked doors can be hazardous, even when you think you're alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Played with parallelism on this one. Special thanks to my awesome readers ilarual and rebornfromash.

He wasn’t supposed to be home yet.  He wasn’t supposed to be home yet and he needed to get out of here before she realized he was home and killed him for his mistake, but he couldn’t. He was supposed to at Star’s for another hour yet, but his friend had grated on his last nerve, so he’d cut things short.  He had just needed to take a piss, thought it would be safe to take a piss, thought she must be in her room studying, had never imagined the unlocked bathroom would be occupied, that she would be taking a bath.  Soul stood, transfixed, utterly enthralled by the sight spread out like a feast before his eyes because his meister was—she was—well, she was in the bathtub, legs akimbo, flushed, eyes closed, hand between her legs, _moaning wantonly_.

 

It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

 

From where he stood, he could see everything, _everything._  Most of it, he’d seen before in flashes, bits and spurts; they lived together and fought together, they were bound to get a view they hadn’t meant to every now and again.  Like now for instance.  He should leave.  A gentleman would leave.  He couldn’t leave.  Maybe he wasn’t a fucking gentleman, in the end, because this was—it was mesmerizing.  His eyes roved her body, her pert little breasts, flushed with her current exertion, her creamy skin littered with shiny scars, some small, some bigger.  Every scar he knew and knew well.  Most he had bandaged himself, all he was there for and hated himself for failing her.  Symbols of her strength, they couldn’t mar her beauty.  His eyes trailed to the one part of her he had never seen and lingered there.  He eyed her soft, golden curls gathered at the apex of her womanhood, her soft little hand currently embedded in the slit, her index finger working frantically as she gasped and panted and moaned.  He could see her own moisture, so shiny and slick, seeping out since that part was thrust out above the water and his own arousal, long since sprung, twitched in need.  And then, suddenly, she moaned his name.   _His name._  Fuck, was she trying to make him die of frustration on the spot?  But—but—why would she be moaning _his name?_  He almost creamed his pants at the very thought.

 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, how long he’d been standing there.  It felt like seconds; it felt like hours; it felt like eternity.  He wanted to stay and help her.  He wanted to leave and help himself.  He wanted to be her fingers, soaked with her own arousal, stroking and stroking and _stroking_ her flushed little clit.  He wanted, how he wanted, to be the one doing that to her, to be the one making her moan, making her cry out his name in ecstasy.  How many times has he imagined it, doing this to her, doing more than this to her, so much more?  Fuck he loved her, wanted her, needed her, wanted to jump into the bath with her and have his way with her, let her have her way with him, to chant her name as his mantra, his lifeline, his prayer.  He needed to leave.  He had to leave, before—before—

           

Her free hand suddenly slipped between her legs, slipped past her occupied extremity, and as two fingers disappeared within her soaked folds, she cried out his name again wantonly.  He almost lost it.  He was definitely going to cream himself if he didn’t leave; he could feel his cock twitch and strain against the fabric that constrained it, his own need almost overwhelming.  He suddenly wanted to know very much what she was thinking, wanted to seek her soul, to see what she saw in her mind, to feel what she felt, to know what it was that made her cry out for him.  Resonance was closed to him—she didn’t know he was there, could never know.  He watched, utterly fascinated, as her second hand, her two fingers, moved up and down, up and down, slipping in and out of her, slipping in and out of that part of her he knew was there and wanted so badly to feel for himself.  He wanted to be those fingers more than he’d ever wanted anything.  Her moans increased and she began to writhe, his name coming from her lips more frequently.  Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck he wasn’t going to make it, could feel himself close to losing it just at the very thought, the very sight, at the cries of his name reverberating through the small, sweltering room.

 

Suddenly, she went rigid and her voice rang out in ecstasy.

 

“Oh my _DEATH, SOOOUUUUL!”_

 

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—she was coming, that had to be it, she was coming and she came shouting his name.  His name.  He watched in fascination as her flushed body twitched, convulsed, as her release twisted onto her face, before she finally relaxed, a pleased little smile creeping up onto her lips.

 

He definitely had to get out of here now.   _Right now_ , before she opened her eyes and saw him and his last sight on this earth was of her flushed, wet body as she chopped him into oblivion.  Not a bad way to go, really, but he wasn’t ready to die just yet, not nearly ready, because _she had just screamed his name as she pleasured herself, as she came._  Did that mean, could that actually mean, that she wanted him too, loved him too?

 

He crept out quietly, relieved that she never registered his presence as she remained panting in the bath after, and made a show of noise in the living room to suggest he’d just returned.  Finally getting to his room, he clicked the door locked behind him, cranked up some loud jazz, and grabbed the lotion and tissues from his night stand to go to work.  After that display, he definitely had some serious business to get down to, namely, taking care of the biggest boner he could ever recall sporting.  Fortunately, it didn’t take long, the scene he had just witnessed providing him with the best spank bank material he had ever, _ever_ had.

 

* * *

 

 

He couldn’t get it out of his head, off of his mind.  Every time he closed his eyes there she was, flushed and wanton and crying his name.  Every time he let his mind wander and much of the time even when he didn’t, the image of her, the sound of her, would come to him unbidden.  Not having a constant hard on was becoming increasingly difficult, and he had to force himself to think of the most unsexy, unappealing things possible—Spirit in a speedo, a slobbering, drooling kishin in a speedo, Maka and Spirit castrating him in a speedo for the crime he had committed only yesterday.  It didn’t work as well as he’d like as any and all of these things tended to morph into Maka in a bikini, Maka in her short, short skirt and nothing else using him to cut the offending kishin to bits before using him in other, much more interesting ways, Maka stroking him through his speedo, whispering how hot it was that he had watched.

 

Yeah, this was definitely a problem.  He had, erm, handled himself several more times yesterday and twice this morning and it didn’t fucking matter—he was pretty sure this problem was permanent and he wasn’t sure how to solve it without her cooperation or, hell, even with it.  Not like she was likely to cooperate.  At first, he’d had this bud of hope, real hope, that that little scene _meant_ something, but really, he was deluding himself.  So she’d thought about him while she masturbated, so what?  Might mean she thought he’d look good naked—didn’t mean she actually loved him, didn’t mean she actually _wanted_ him, it just meant he was good enough looking to make her personal spank bank, which hell, was nice, but not actually meaningful, really.  After all, before Maka had become the star of his own spank bank, it had been filled with plenty of randomness, people who looked good enough, but who he’d never touch if given the chance.   Definitely not meaningful.

 

Today, she had double meister class at the end of the day while he had single weapon class and a free period after.  Normally, he waited for her, but he told her he was going to go home and take a nap when they parted after lunch and she didn’t protest.  Really, he just needed to get the fuck out of there.

 

When he got home, knowing he had a good two hours until she was back, he at first tried to relax, listen to music, literally calm his damned hormones.  It didn’t work.  He kept thinking of the bathroom.  No wonder she liked baths so damned much.  Well, he supposed, it couldn’t _hurt_ to take one himself.  He did have a couple of hours and maybe it was just the ticket to get this out of his system before it got out of hand.  Yeah, a bath was definitely a cool idea.  So he went to the bathroom, stripped down, ran the water, and eagerly anticipated laying where she had lain only the day before

 

* * *

 

 

She wasn’t supposed to be home yet.  She wasn’t supposed to be home yet and she needed to get out of here before he realized she was home and freaked out and left her forever for her mistake, but she couldn’t.  Meister training had let out after only twenty minutes because Marie had finally gone into labor and Stein had to run off to join her, so she was home now, knowing Soul would be home as well.  She had just needed to pee, thought it would be safe to use the bathroom, thought he must be in his room sleeping, had never imagined the unlocked bathroom would be occupied, that he would be taking a bath.  Soul never, _never_ took baths.  Maka stood transfixed, utterly enthralled by the sight opened up like her favorite book before her, because her weapon he—he was—in the bathtub, legs popped on the sides, eyes closed, hand between his legs moving up and down his clearly erect shaft, grunting and gasping.

 

It was the most intriguing thing she’d ever seen.

 

From where she stood, she could see everything, _everything._  Most of it, she’d seen before in flashes, bits and spurts; they lived together and fought together, they were bound to get a view they hadn’t meant to every now and again.  Like, now for instance.  She should leave.  She should definitely leave because this was wrong, so wrong, to watch him like this.  She wasn’t a pervert!  Okay, so maybe she really _was_ a pervert in the end, because this was—it was mesmerizing.  Her eyes roved his body, his lean, muscled arms, his tan skin, his toned chest bisected with that puckered, ragged scar, a scar she knew well, a scar she was there for.  She had held the wound together with her own hands, covered in his blood, so much blood, the wound he’d gotten for her, because of her.  She was there and she hated herself for failing him.  But it was a symbol of his strength as a weapon, of his devotion to her; it couldn’t diminish him.  Her eyes trailed to the one part of him she had never seen and lingered there.  She eyed his soft, white hair, gathered around his manhood, his slender, long fingered hand currently wrapped around his shaft, pumping up and down, up and down as he panted and moaned.  She marveled at how big it seemed, his cock, so thick and long and _hard_ as he moved his hand over and over again.  She felt the slickness gathering between her legs increase, felt a hot spike of need ripple through her.  And then, suddenly, he moaned her name.   _Her name._  Death, was he trying to make her die of frustration on the spot?  But—but—why would he be moaning _her name?_  She almost lost it at the very thought.

 

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, how long she’d been standing there.  It felt like seconds; it felt like hours; it felt like eternity.  She wanted to stay and help him.  She wanted to leave and help herself.   She wanted to run screaming.  Most of all, she wanted to be his hand, stroking and stroking and _stroking_ his impossibly swollen manhood.  She wanted, how she wanted, to be the one doing that to him, to be the one making him moan, making him cry out her name so desperately.  How many times had she imagined it, doing this to him, doing more than this to him, with him, so much more?  Death how she loved him, wanted him, needed him, wanted to jump into the bath with him and have her way with him, let him have his way with her, to scream his name over and over again, to be his, wholly his, always only ever _his_.  She needed to leave.  She had to leave, before—before—

           

He bit down on his lower lip, his pace increasing, his hand becoming almost frantic, his free hand suddenly gripping the side of the tub, white knuckled.  He cried out her name again, the sound so raw and harsh and full of _need_ that she almost lost it. She was definitely going to come undone completely if she didn’t leave; she could feel the moisture between her legs, her panties soaked, could feel the ache for him in her core, her own need almost overwhelming.  She suddenly wanted to know very much what he was thinking, wanted to seek his soul, to see what he saw in his mind, to feel what he felt, to know what it was that made him cry out for her.  Resonance was closed to her—he didn’t know she was there, could never know.  She watched, utterly fascinated, as his hand continued to move, up and down, up and down that part of him she wanted so badly to feel for herself.  She wanted to touch herself, to alleviate some of the pressure, the raw want building within her.  His moans increased and he began to writhe, her name coming from his lips more frequently.  She almost moaned in return, the sound of his deep voice rumbling through her in the small space.  Oh Death, she wasn’t going to make it, could feel herself close to losing it just at the very thought, the very sight, at the cries of her name reverberating through the small, sweltering room.

Suddenly, he went rigid and his voice rang out in ecstasy.

 

“Fuck, oh fuck, Makaaaaa _!”_

 

Oh my Death—he was coming, she knew it with certainty as she saw the white, viscous fluid come out of him, saw his thick cock twitch visibly, rhythmically in his hand as the liquid shot out in spurts.  He was coming with her name on his lips.  Her name.  She watched in fascination as his flushed body twitched, convulsed, as his release twisted onto his face, as his cock twitched and spurted and spurted and spurted before he finally relaxed with a contented sigh, a self-satisfied grin splitting his face.

 

She definitely had to get out of here now.   _Right now_ , before he opened his eyes and saw her and hated her forever.  But still, she was so confused, so flustered, so utterly turned on because _he had just screamed her name as he pleasured himself, as he came._  Did that mean, could that actually mean, that he wanted her too, loved her too?

 

She crept out quietly, her relief that he never registered her presence as he remained panting in the bath palpable, and made a show of noise in the living room to suggest she’d just returned.  Finally getting to her room, she clicked the door locked behind her, cranked up some loud trance, stripped down, and wormed under her covers.  After that display, she definitely had some serious business to get down to, namely, dissipating the throbbing, aching heat between her legs.  Fortunately, it didn’t take long, the scene she had just witnessed the best fantasy material she had ever, _ever_ had.

 

* * *

 

 

She couldn’t get it out of her head, off of her mind.  Every time she closed her eyes there he was, hot and hard and crying her name.  Every time she let her mind wander and much of the time even when she didn’t, the image of his body, the sound of his voice, would come to her unbidden. By mid morning, her panties were soaked and uncomfortable.  She tried to force herself to think of the most unsexy, unappealing things possible, to stem the constant flow—her Papa, flirting with some skeezy woman, a slobbering, drooling kishin, Soul catching her watching and leaving her, never speaking to her again because she _couldn’t get her damned shit together._ It didn’t work as well as she’d like as any and all of these things tended to morph into Soul flirting with her, Soul, warm in her palms as she used him to cut the offending kishin to bits before using him in other, much more interesting ways, Soul, not leaving, but asking her to come help him, whispering how hot it was that she had watched.

 

Yes, this was definitely a problem.  She had, um, taken care of things several more times yesterday and twice this morning and it didn’t seem to matter—she was pretty sure this problem was permanent and she wasn’t sure how to solve it without his help.  Not like he was likely to help.  At first, she’d had this bud of hope, real hope, that that little scene _meant_ something, but really, she was deluding herself.  So he’d thought about her while he masturbated, so what?  It was natural, after so long as partners, that he’d have some slight attraction to her, that she might make the line up of girls he thought about as he did his thing.  It didn’t mean he actually loved her, didn’t mean he actually _wanted_ her, it just meant that she wasn’t so unattractive that he couldn’t use her as fantasy material.  In ways, many ways after how long he had declared her total lack of sex appeal, it was gratifying.  But good enough to think about while going through such daily necessaries as relieving sexual tension did not mean he actually wanted to be with her.  After all, before Soul had become the star of her own fantasies, they had been filled with plenty of randomness, characters from novels who appealed to her on some level but who she’d never touch if they were real and willing.   No, it definitely didn’t mean anything.

 

She got through school, flustered and quiet, and was very glad for the plans they each had for tonight; Soul was slated to play basketball with the guys while she went to a movie with their female friends.  She cancelled out at the last minute but didn’t tell him, unable to stand being out and about for any longer, unable to pull her fragmented thoughts out of the gutter.

 

When she got home, knowing she had a good two hours until he was back, she at first tried to relax, listen to music, to literally calm her stupid, stupid hormones.  It didn’t work.  She kept thinking of the bathroom. Maybe, just maybe, it was time for her to take another bath.  She did have a couple of hours and it might be just the ticket to get this out of her system before it got out of hand. So she went to the bathroom, stripped down, ran the water, and eagerly anticipated laying where he had lain only the day before.  She thought about him, watching her the way she had watched him, watching her and wanting to touch her, wanting her like she wanted him.  As she slipped into the hot bath she moaned with anticipation, the water mimicking how she imagined the heat of his bare skin would feel against hers.  Oh yes, how she needed this.

 

* * *

 

 

He had a good couple hours until she returned.  Yeah, maybe he was an asshole for cancelling on their friends, but he couldn’t fucking care less when he was still battling the mother if all raging hard ons and this ridiculously tempting opportunity to take another bath alone had presented itself.  Maybe this time, instead of thinking of her in the bath, he’d imagine her out of it, watching him, wanting him like he wanted her.  Fuck.  As he got through the door into the house, he stripped on his way to the bathroom, heedless.  He could clean his clothes up later—for now, he needed to take care of this.

 

As he entered the bathroom, he was to the tub and about to look down to turn on the water when he heard the moan.  Standing just over the bathtub he looked down only to see Maka, once more splayed out, fingering herself, writhing and moaning.

He blinked, once, twice.  He took in a sharp breath.  This couldn’t be real, no way, no way this happens twice in a row.  He must be hallucinating, daydreaming, something.  Fuck, oh fuck she looked hot.  He wanted to reach out, she was right there, right beneath him, to reach out and touch her, to feel her skin slide beneath his fingertips, warm and willing, to feel her writhing and moaning beneath him just as she was writhing and moaning now.  She gasped out his name again and he couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop it, he groaned her name lowly, the word thick with need.

 

“Soul?” her voice questioned, her eyes flying open to meet his, her fingers stilling.  “Oh my Death Soul!”  She was staring up at him, wide eyed, curious and frightened and flushed and still hot as fuck.  She shook her head, blinked, shook her head again.

 

“Must be a dream.  I fell asleep in the bath,” she murmured.

 

He just shook his head, no, the next words coming unbidden.  


“Is this what you dream about?”

 

Her stunned look faded, slowly spreading into a smile that was both shy yet, somehow also wanton.  “On good days,” she said coyly, before surprising him as the hand that had, only moments before, been touching her most intimate areas, suddenly shot out of the bath to softly grasp his overstrained cock.  “Only on good days.”  He moaned at the contact, he couldn’t help it, her hot, wet little hand feeling delicious against his most sensitive skin.  Fuck, how he’d wanted this, how he’d waited for this—but this couldn’t be happening, no way this was happening.  She began to stroke him and he stuttered out her name, his eyes slamming shut.

He forced his eyes open, forced himself to look at her.  Her smile had faded to a look of concentration, her eyes alight with raw need as she touched him.  “Feels so real,” she murmured softly.   “Too big,” she shook her head slightly, in seeming wonder.

 

Actually, he was pretty average, maybe a little on the thick side, but nothing that was—fuck, he let another moan escape as her fingers continued to stroke and touch and feel.  He needed to focus because an alarm was going off in the back of his lust hazed brain, a signal that something was very, very wrong with this picture.

She had said it felt real.  She thought—she really thought—this was a dream.  Maybe _he_ was dreaming because this had gone from odd and hot as fuck to downright bizarre though still hot as fuck.  He reached out to cover the hand currently grasping his shaft, stilling it, sought her eyes again.

 

“Maka?” he managed softly.

 

“Yes, Soul?”  Her tone mirrored his own.

 

“This isn’t a dream.”

 

“It’s not?”  She seemed to puzzle over that for a moment, her hand squeezing his shaft, seeking some sort of confirmation.

 

“No, it’s not,” he managed, the feel of her hand on him still making coherent speech a challenge.

 

“Oh,” she breathed, eyes widening.  She pinched herself with her free hand, shaking her head.  “Oh!” she repeated, clearly stunned, her hand shooting away from his cock.  He groaned slightly, involuntarily, at the loss of contact because fuck had that felt good, and he was almost kicking himself for disabusing her of her delusion, but he had to.  He wouldn’t take advantage of her, would never do that to anyone, let alone to _her_ of all people.

 

She glanced down at his still stiff member, her face flaming.  “I—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I sh—shouldn’t have—Oh my Death Soul, I’m so sorry!”

 

“No, don’t be,” he shook his head, scrubbing a hand through the back of his hair.  He had expected explosive anger, the chop to end all chops, not—this.  “I, uh—“ he was as red as she was, had to be “—really liked it,” his voice came out low and broken.

 

“Y—you did?”  her eyes were wide with something like curiosity, something like disbelief.

 

“Yeah,” he grunted, unable to get out more even as he wanted to shout that it was the most fantastic thing he’d ever felt, oh fuck yes, and he’d been dreaming about her doing that for years, and Death, it sucked that she’d stopped.

 

“Would you like me to, um, I mean, I could do it more, if, um, you wanted.”  She was even more red, but there was something like anticipation in her eyes, her gaze fixed on the object in question, refusing to meet his and—fuck, was this even a question?

 

“Please?” he managed, a quiet, desperate word, overwhelmed, because he wanted to shout to the rafters yes, holy hell yes please, please, _please_ yes, she could touch any part of him she fucking felt like it any fucking time she felt like it but especially there, oh fuck yes.

 

Surely _he_ must really be the one dreaming because suddenly, her hand was back on him, touching tentatively at first, but then, grasping tighter and stroking and stroking and stroking and oh fuck he couldn’t take much of this, not like this, not when it was her.  Well, fuck, if this was a dream, then he never wanted to wake up.

 

Her face was intent, focused, as she worked his shaft.  He kept looking between her face and her body as she stroked, aching to touch, to tease, to feel her soft little tits, her slick folds, her warm skin, any part of her, every part of her.  His fingers twitched with the need to touch her even as he slammed his eyes shut again, gasping her name as she found that little spot where head meets shaft and put light pressure there.

 

He opened his eyes again, seeking her body, and what he found made him shudder and moan with need.  Her eyes were shut and with her free hand, she was touching herself again even as she stroked him.

 

“Could I—help you?” he choked out, his need thick in his throat.

 

Her eyes opened and she flushed.

“Y…yes,” she managed, removing her hand and sitting up.  He took the cue that the space she’d made was meant for him and he sat in the spot provided.  They both shifted, legs tangling.  She reached out to grasp him again and he closed his eyes and moaned before opening them and meeting his gaze.  Slowly, teasingly, he trailed his hand up her leg, up her thigh, to stroke her curls.  They were wet and soft and he’d meant to tease longer but he wanted to touch her too badly for that, so as she continued to stroke him, he slipped a finger lower, down into her folds, exploring, seeking.  It was hot and wet, her resulting moan tearing from her lips and through his very soul.  He couldn’t help it, he came right then, the feel of her stroking him, of her wet heat on his fingers, the sound of his name on her lips too much.  Her own name tore from his mouth as he climaxed.  It was, far and away, the best orgasm he’d ever had, his mind temporarily torn from his deliciously twitching body and into the stars with the sheer pleasure of it before he came down from his high and remembered that he’d promised to help her, remembered how fucking eager he was to fulfill that particular promise.

 

He opened his eyes.  She was eying her fingers speculatively, the warm leavings of his pleasure evident on her hand.  When she noticed his eyes on hers she smiled shyly.  She opened her mouth to say something, but he didn’t want to talk, he wanted to _do_ , so he moved his stilled fingers, causing her to slam her eyes shut and throw back her head as he growled “my turn.”

 

She didn’t protest, her hands slipping to her sides, his cooling seed dissipating in the warm water.  He began to explore, feeling the textured little nub and beginning to stroke it softly before applying a bit more pressure, much like he’d seen her do two days before.  She arched her back and gasped in response, his name coming to her lips.  As he stroked with light pressure with his index finger, her moisture hot on his fingers as her body arched her out of the water, he moved forward, settling her bottom on his thighs as she opened her own legs readily, slinging them onto either side of the tub.  He groaned at the sight of her so spread before him, so eager.  Her head was still back, her eyes still closed as she panted and gasped and moaned with every move of his finger.  As he applied just that bit more pressure she gasped his name again and he wanted to moan in response.  He remembered how she had used her other hand, how she had slipped her fingers inside herself, and he thought, maybe, she would like that.  So he took his free hand and moved below, feeling, seeking, until he found her opening.  He teased it, running his finger around the slick heat, and she gasped his name again.

 

“Can I…please?” he asked, his voice raw, because he would only do what she wanted, what she was willing.

 

“Yes, please yes, “ she whispered, her voice just as raw.  He didn’t need to be told twice, plunging his index finger inside of her even as he continued to stroke her clit, reveling in her renewed cry of his name.  He pushed his finger as far as it would go, moaning at the feel of her tight, wet heat, at the implications of it.  He moved his finger out and in, out and in, felt himself hardening again because this was, far and away, the most arousing thing he had ever done.  He reveled in the pleasure he was giving her, reveled in every moan, every pant, reveled in doing what he had only dreamt of for so long.  She bucked against his hand, panting.

 

“More,” she moaned, and he took her cue, remembering she had used two fingers on herself.  He pulled his hand out and slipped another finger in with the first.  She tightened around them both as he worked, pumping them in and out repeatedly as he continued to stroke her clit in time, wishing desperately he had a third hand to stroke himself with because holy fuck he was so hard again and he wanted wanted _wanted_ to do more.

 

He felt her hand on him again suddenly, stroking erratically, and it didn’t matter if it wasn’t precise because any touch from her was heaven.  She continued to buck against his hand and stroke, started crying his name louder even as her pumping of him became yet more erratic, more frantic.  It didn’t matter; the feel of her tight around his fingers, anything might have made him come.  An instant later, as she cried his name, a high pitched wail, as she arched and her body shuddered, as he felt the walls of her pussy convulse around his fingers, he did, moaning her own name brokenly, the feel of it all so much, too much.  This finish was as good as the first, his mind numb with pleasure as her hand left his overwrought flesh, as his own hands moved away from her, away from the nirvana they had sought and conquered.

 

A moment later, he dared open his eyes.  He couldn’t believe he was here, now, with her.  It seemed impossible.  It seemed the dream she’d first thought it was, but as he felt her legs warm on his, he knew it was all too real.  She was looking at him, flushed with the exertion and with clear embarrassment, but she didn’t seem unhappy.

 

“So,” he managed, not sure what else to say because they had just done something together he never, ever thought they would and it was—it was—fucking fantastic.

 

“So,” she echoed, holding his gaze.

 

“That was…”

 

“Yeah.”

 

They fell into silence, because what could they say?  She bit her lip and he couldn’t help his fascination with the small, nervous habit, her mouth and her teeth taking on new, delicious possibilities in his head as she still sat naked before him.

 

“I’d, uh, like it if we, um, tried it again.  Maybe.  Sometime.  I mean, if you would.”  Her color deepened and he could see the effort it cost her not to look away.   

 

Was she fucking kidding?  Could this even be a question?

 

“Yes,” he said emphatically.  “Fuck, yes, anytime you want.  Any fucking time.”

 

“Um, good.  Then, maybe we should, uh, dry off and make dinner, because that needs done, but after dinner, if you want to, we could—maybe—continue.”

 

Oh fuck yes, please.  He had surely died and gone to heaven, his soul the dinner for some stray kishin egg, because he was pretty sure his meister was suggesting they get each other off again after dinner and holy shit yes.  Just yes.

 

“That sounds cool,” he tried to remain casual, tried not to grin in sheer elation as he stood and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around his waist before grabbing another to hand to her as she stood.  She took it and wrapped herself, very clearly still flushed with embarrassment but refusing to let it get to her.  He was pretty sure he was red himself but who gave a fuck because _they were going to try again after dinner._

 

They went to their respective rooms, dressed in some pjs, came out, and made dinner.  As they worked, Soul couldn’t help himself, as she moved from the stove to the fridge to get something, he grabbed her and kissed her because he wanted her to know what he couldn’t say just yet—that this wasn’t just about getting off.  She didn’t chop him, or get mad, she just kissed him back, sweetly, and then more forcefully, their noses squashed, yet neither caring because _this was fantastic._  She broke it off after a minute, shaking her head.

 

“Don’t wanna burn the curry,” she scolded.  “But,” she smiled as she pulled some paste from the fridge.  “That’s something else we can work on later, okay?”

 

He grinned back.   “Yeah, okay.”

 

Later, they would try again, this time in the bedroom, and they really did practice the finer art of kissing until they got it down perfectly.   Eventually, some time down the road, weeks into pushing their physical bond further and further, weeks into doing and touching and not being able to say, they would finally gather the courage to exchange the feelings that went with it all, to say the words that were beneath the deeds, but that would come later, that would come when their repeated physical exchanges cemented for both of them that this was real and mutual and lasting. Just after would come their final physical union, because wasn’t that the end they had been sprinting towards all along?  And in that moment that everything was clear, in that perfect moment after he and she became we, they would look at each other and laugh, because they both knew how stupid and silly and wonderful it was that it had only happened because of a few accidental encounters in the bathroom.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	12. Go for It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maka wasn't looking for a one night stand, but when that's exactly what she gets, she finds out there are consequences in the morning. AU. Total Smut Eater.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this came from one of those prompt memes, and was the request of the-self-diagnosis. It is smut-tastic, though the smut has a lot of humor. Yes, this is cheesy as fuck, and yes, I wrote this when I should have been working on my resbang fic, and yes, it's almost long enough to fill the minimum requirement. These things happen.
> 
> Thanks to rebornfromash for encouraging the silliness, and for betaing the thing.
> 
> WARNING: THIS IS RATED MA-NSFW. Thar be sex. You have been warned.

It had been all Liz's fault, but wasn't it always?

They were sitting at the bar, Maka nursing her third drink, Liz her fifth, their other friends having long since abandoned them for the dance floor, when the tall blonde elbowed her shorter friend.

"Did you see that?" she said with a wide grin.

"See what?" Maka raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"Hottie at nine o'clock, checking you  _out_!"

Maka knew exactly who her friend was talking about; she'd noticed him staring their way twenty minutes ago from the other end of the bar. With his odd looks, those strange eyes and hair and  _teeth,_ it had been hard not to notice when he'd leveled his red eyed stare in their direction. He was probably just waiting for her to leave so he could put the moves on Liz, which was fine by her; she hadn't wanted to come anyway.

"I think you mean he's checking  _you_ out." She rolled her eyes.

"Nah, he's into you. Trust me," Liz said, her grin broadening.

Maka shrugged. "Even if he is, I need to leave soon—and I'm certainly not interested in some—some—" she glanced at him "—goth vampire wannabe."

"Not even a super hot goth vampire wannabe?" Liz's tone was teasing, but her mouth was set into a slight pout.

"Nope. Especially when I have yet  _another_ newbie to train bright and early. Remind me to thank you for forgetting to tell me until yesterday, by the way." She couldn't help but scowl slightly.

Liz half shrugged in response. "Sure, what're assistants for."

Maka heaved a long suffering sigh. She was sure her personal assistant / friend had only been trying to spare her longer annoyance by  _not_ letting her know that Marie had dropped by the week before to tell her she'd be training yet  _another_  new Editor. Well that, and she'd probably wanted to avoid listening to her bitch.

They'd been dangling her take over as Editor-in-Chief over her head since Marie first announced the pregnancy a few months ago, and she'd gotten damned sick of being thrown every bit of extra bullshit to prove her worth.

She was beginning to want to tell them all to fuck off, but of course, she wouldn't; if she wanted to make Editor-in-Chief before she was thirty as her mother had, she would need to grin and bear it, even if it did mean training the new idiot Music Editor, a guy who had barely graduated, had just eked out first a bachelors and then a masters before spending the last two years doing who the hell knew what, a guy who had only been hired because apparently his family name meant something in the music industry.

Maka didn't know shit about music or the industry, but the idea that this asshole made Editor on name recognition alone had her fuming. And yet, she would suck it up like she always did because the Chief position was so  _close_ she could practically taste it, could smell the old leather of the head office chair more strongly with every passing day.

If training some lazy jerkoff who had won the genetic lottery was the price she paid to take that chair, well then, she would welcome said jerkoff to Death Magazine with a smile on her face and an eyeroll in her heart.

"Don't look now," Liz elbowed her again and Maka had to resist the urge to punch her, "but I think your bloodsucker is headed this way."

"Good. I'll leave you to him." And with that, she left a ten on the bar and got up to head towards the bathroom, figuring it was an adequate excuse to disappear for a bit.. If Liz became occupied with a guy, she'd finally be able to leave without being reminded that she needed to  _get out, relax, live a little._

Maka lived just fine with her books, the occasional lunch or dinner out with her friends, and plenty of evenings working, thank you very much!

As she took a few steps away from the bar, she heard a voice, low and a little rough, call out "hey, wait a sec!"

She kept walking, not thinking it was meant for her.

"Seriously," the voice was closer, just behind her now. "Can you hold up just a sec?"

"Huh?" Maka whirled around to find the vampire wannabe only a foot behind her, looking annoyed or maybe nervous for an instant before his face became neutral, unreadable. "Are you talking to—to me?" she asked, incredulous, because she'd fully expected him to approach Liz the moment she got up; most guys preferred her buxom blonde assistant over her, with her modest curves and decidedly guarded aura.

"Who else would I be talking to?" he scoffed.

"Oh—alright then," she looked up at him and fidgeted unhappily. "Can I help you with something?"

He seemed to consider this for a moment, which was absurd as he had been the one to stop her, then nodded slowly. "Was sorta hopin' you'd dance. Uh, with me, I mean."

She blinked up at him. "You want to dance?"

"Yeah, I mean, if you—"

"Did Liz put you up to this?" she demanded.

"Who?" he asked, knitting his brows together in clear confusion.

"Oh never mind!" She practically shouted her exasperation. "Look, I was just leaving, so if you'd—"

"One dance," his eyes looked almost pleading. "Then I'll leave you alone. Just. One. Please?"

He had scrubbed his hand through the back of his hair in agitation and looked decidedly desperate, almost dejected.

"I—uh—guess one dance can't hurt…" Her voice was quiet. She didn't  _want_  to dance with him, but he looked so sincerely defeated that she couldn't help but to agree. After all, what harm could once dance do?

"Great! Let's go then!" He held out a hand, she took it with only a moments hesitation, and they made their way to the dance floor. When she hazarded a glance to her assistant and noticed the woman was smirking,  _smirking,_ the fiend, even as she gave a big cheesy thumbs up, Maka had to stifle a groan.

Unfortunately, it was a slow song. Maka almost groaned again as they got to the dance floor, but let him put one hand lightly at her waist as she placed her free hand on his shoulder, and they danced.

And danced.

And  _danced._

Maka had never been much of a dancer, but there was something about dancing with him that just felt  _right_ , as if they'd been doing it all their lives. She found it impossible to break away as slow songs became fast ones, as Liz brought over more drinks, grinning conspiratorially. Several drinks and a dozen songs later and she was grinding against him, and it felt so damned _good_ , for him too if the hardness against her ass was any indication, that she thought she'd like to take him home and figure out just how good that hardness could feel; yet, even as the desire struck her, she realized somewhere amidst the haze of alcohol and sudden lust that it was a  _very_  bad idea, and as the song ended, she excused herself to go to the bathroom because she needed to clear her head.

She should have expected Liz to be hot on her heels.

"Told you," the tall blonde's reflection grinned at her as she splashed her face with cold water.

Maka whirled on her. "Told me what, exactly?"

"That he was into you." Her idiotic grin never wavered. It was infuriating.

"So what if he is?" She raised one shoulder in a sort of lazy half shrug.

"So you should get on that. God knows you could use to unwind. Why not let the hot guy do it for you. Or to you."

"Liz!" She hissed as a toilet flushed and she realized they weren't alone.

Her assistant rolled her eyes. "Oh please, half the girls here are just looking for a quick fuck, and the other half came in with their fuck buddy. I know you're interested, so pretend you  _don't_  have a stick lodged three feet up your ass for once and go for it."

"But…" Maka shook her head as the toilet flusher walked up and washed her hands, pointedly ignoring them both. She had pink hair and a very short skirt.

"But what? Live a little. What's the worst that'll happen—you actually like him and a one time fuck becomes a standing arrangement?"

Maka sighed, because it was true, her hazy brain told her, and he was  _hot_ , and she'd never had this sort of instant chemistry with anyone—and she deserved to just let go… But—

"You should listen to your friend," the girl at the sink said as she moved to grab some paper towels and dry her hands.

"Beg pardon?" Maka's eyebrows shot up into her hairline.

"You were dancing with The Shark, right?" She turned to the other two women as she began to dry her hands.

"Um?"

"White hair, red eyes, sharp teeth?" Maka nodded slightly in response. "No one knows his real name so we've sort of improvised. Half the regular girls have been trying to get into his pants for months, ever since he started showing up every other weekend. He never dances with anyone—has never taken anyone home. So girl, if you can get a piece of that buried treasure, you'd be a legend. Go get it." Finished drying, she turned and left, leaving a flustered Maka in her wake.

She shook her head. What was  _that_?

"Well?" Liz asked, expectant. "You heard the girl. Go get it!" And without ceremony, she steered her friend out the bathroom door.

The Shark, as the pink haired girl had dubbed him, was waiting near the small hall leading to the bathrooms, leaned up casually against the wall.

"There you are," he said as Liz pushed her in front of him. "Thought you'd fallen in."

She felt her face heat up, though whether it was from his words, proximity, or heated stare, she couldn't say.

"No, I…" she stammered, and he chuckled.

"Kidding. Damn you're cute when you're flustered." She felt like she was melting, the fire in his red eyes branding her. "You wanna maybe get out of here?"

She swallowed, her tongue feeling suddenly too thick. A small part of her, shoved into the back of her mind by alcohol and undeniable desire, screamed no. But she found herself nodding, her traitorous body ready to follow him wherever he chose to lead.

He smiled at that. "Good."

Suddenly he had grabbed her hand and was hauling her across the club. She heard Liz call after her "have fun!" and then she was out the door.

He led her to the parking lot across the street, to a large motorcycle, and dug through one of the saddlebags to hand her a black helmet emblazoned with orange flames before mounting the bike.

She looked between the helmet and the bike unhappily and he raised an eyebrow at her.

"You're drunk—we both are. I—I live closed. We could, um, walk. If—"

He sighed, but nodded, grabbing the helmet and shoving it away and then getting off the bike.

"Lead the way, then."

And she did, grabbing his hand to walk him the two blocks to her apartment, his hand large and warm in hers, around hers, a promise of what was to come. Maka shivered with anticipation, the full force of what she'd done hitting her.  _She had invited him back to her place._

She felt her whole body flush at the thought. This wasn't like her, at all, but then, she'd never wanted something like this with a stranger before—had never connected so instantly with anyone.

And wasn't Liz right, didn't she deserve to let go, to go for it, to live a little?

Too soon or maybe not soon enough, they reached her building and she led him upstairs and to her door. They'd both said little during the walk, nervous anticipation boiling between them.

And then her door was open and they were inside her apartment, alone.

And then they flew together as if they held opposite ends of a magnet, mouths meeting desperately, hands finding hair, hips, ass. He tasted of malt liquor, a bit sweet, a bit sour. He was delicious, intoxicating.

And then she was against her own front door, moaning at the feel of his mouth, hot and insistent on her sensitive neck. He growled against her at the sound, low and animal, making her shudder in want. He moved his mouth up, up, up, placing searing kisses on her flushed skin as he went.

"What's your name?" he breathed against her ear.

"M—Maka," she stammered out as he began to suck on her earlobe.

"Maka," he said, and her name sounded so sensual on his tongue that she wrenched her hands in his hair to pull his mouth to hers again. He complied, and once again their lips met greedily; she felt his tongue hot in her mouth again, felt his too soft lips warm against her own, and her hands moved lower, down his back, down to his ass to pull him closer, bringing his body flush with hers, allowing her to feel his erection against her lower abdomen, straining against his jeans. He groaned lowly at the feeling and pulled away from the kiss to meet her gaze, the sheer desire in his eyes sending a wave of her own desire coursing through her.

"Soul," he said, his voice low and breathy.

When her brows knit in confusion, he moved in to plant a kiss at the corner of her mouth, softly, chastely kissing his way to her ear again.

"My name," he said, "is Soul. So you know what to scream."

She might have laughed at that, because even drunk, no especially drunk, she realized how ridiculous it sounded, but he had grabbed her ass just then and hoisted her up, and as her legs wrapped around his waist almost of their own volition, she found herself thoroughly pinned to the door, the bulge in his jeans now flush against her own heat, her short black dress hitched up around her hips. She moaned along with him at the contact, so delicious, so necessary.

No, she couldn't laugh, wouldn't laugh, because she had heard the challenge in his tone, felt it in the pressing of his body against hers, and Maka Albarn did not back down from a challenge.

He wanted to hear a name being screamed?

Then he'd be screaming hers.

She pressed her hips against him, bucking herself against his erection, causing him to moan, before tangling her fingers in his hair again and drawing his mouth up to kiss him, plunging in her tongue to meet his before pulling it back and biting his lower lip softly, eliciting a groan. He bucked his own hips, thrusting himself against her, and she gasped at the force of it. She felt so hot, overheating, melting, the alcohol and lust an overwhelming cocktail.

She pulled away from the kiss, moved to speak against his ear.

"Soul." His name felt heavy on her tongue, weighed down by sheer desire. She'd never wanted anyone like she wanted this man, this stranger, and it was intoxicating. She felt him shudder slightly at his name on her lips and couldn't help her triumphant smile. "Let's go to bed," she finished, because she was tired of them both wearing clothes and her big, soft bed would allow them to do exactly what her body was screaming for.

"Yeah," he agreed, voice low. He put her down and she grabbed his hand again to lead him back to her room. She couldn't believe she was doing this, she had never done anything like this, not even in college. Sex had always come with relationships, with the few boyfriends she had been with, never with a stranger.

But then, she had never really  _wanted_ any of those boyfriends, not like she wanted him. Sex had always been an obligation. But this—this was a  _need_ , raw and powerful.

She pulled him through the door and dropped his hand, turning to face him.

"Shut the door and take off your clothes," she commanded. She almost couldn't believe what she was saying, doing, but it was too late to turn back—she didn't want to turn back.

"What about you?" He raised his eyebrows, turning to face her after shutting the door with an audible click.

"What? You need me to do it?" She smiled, looked him up and down, and took the two steps to close the distance between them. "Well. If you insist."

Could this really be her? She moved her hands to his shoulders, pulling at the leather of his jacket to slide it off. It hit the floor with a soft whump, landing in a dark heap. She then moved her hands to his chest, exploring over the fabric of his black band t-shirt with her hands, her eyes never straying from his heated stare. Her hands trailed down to the hem of his shirt and began to inch it up slowly, painstakingly.

"This what you wanted?" She said softly.

"Not even close," he growled, and then his hands moved to his shirt to rip it over his head at the same time he kicked off his shoes. Her eyes roved his tan, toned chest greedily, taking in the white puckered scar that cut across it before her hands strayed to the hem of his jeans, to the metal snap that held them closed. She unsnapped it handily, then brought her other hand down, the back of her wrist brushing against the bulge of his erection before she moved to pull the zipper. He moaned again at her touch and his own hands pulled down his pants roughly, taking the boxers with them and leaving him bare before her.

Maka swallowed hard, taking all of him in this time, fit and willing, taking in the darker skin of his penis, its length and girth. He was thick, though not so much it would hurt her, and his length seemed average. The thought of how he would feel, of how she soon would feel him, slammed into her, and as a new wave of heat and desire swept through her, her hand strayed down to touch him tentatively, enjoying the softness of his skin, taut over his erection and searing in its heat.

He groaned at her touch and rasped out "your turn," his hands moving to her shoulders, around her back, to work at the zipper of her dress. His hands moved back up to slide it down her shoulders, and it dropped to the floor in a pool of shimmery black.

"No bra?" Soul asked huskily, eyebrows reaching for his hairline.

She shrugged, the heat of his hands on her shoulders delicious. "Don't need it. This dress looks better without one."

"You won't hear me complain," he grinned at her as his hands moved down from her shoulders, down her sides, grazing over the side of her breasts and torso before resting at the strings of her black silk thong. "These too." It was less a question than a command, but Maka nodded anyway, reveling in the feel of his hands as he slowly slid her panties down her legs. She stepped out of them as he reached the bottom and kicked off her heels, leaving her as bare as he was. His eyes roved her body as greedily as hers had roved his, the heat of his gaze like a furnace, like an inferno.

"Exquisite," he breathed, then he was tossing her panties aside and grabbing her by the hips to pull her flush against him as his mouth moved down to hers again. She giggled into his mouth, pulled back to murmur "god you're cheesy," then they were kissing again and she couldn't care. Another minute passed, then two, their tongues sliding against each other a little desperately, their hands touching and exploring, groping and pinching. She ran her hands down his chest as he did the same, squeezing her deliciously before lightly pinching first one nipple then another. Her shiver of pleasure, the soft mewl of appreciation she let go into his mouth, was all the encouragement he needed as he moved his mouth away from hers and began to kiss and suck his way down her neck towards her breasts and oh god, oh fuck, was he biting her? It felt amazing, and she couldn't stifle her gasp. It felt—well, it felt better than anything she could remember, and she didn't know if it was the alcohol, or the clear and inexplicable chemistry between them, or if he was just  _that good,_  and really, she didn't care as she arched her back in pleasure and let out a heady moan when he took one breast into his mouth and began to lick and suck.

The move had her pressed even more firmly against his erection, resting against her belly button. She backed up, and her own hands that had frozen on his biceps as he worked so diligently ceased being idle as one moved to grip his hair and the other to trail down his chest, down his abdomen, a finger circling his belly button playfully before she trailed it down his coarse trail of hair to find his erection again. She ran a finger over it lightly, eliciting a soft moan from him, delicious against her breast, before swirling a finger over his wet tip, and then along the bottom vein.

"Fuck," she heard him groan around her nipple before nipping it with those ridiculously sharp teeth of his, causing her to moan herself, her fingers going nerveless for an instant as the sensation flooded her. She wrapped her fingers around his length in retaliation, using his slick precum to glide her hand over him more easily, paying particular attention the thick vein underneath, to the place where it met the tip. Soul would occasionally stop in his suckling to moan, and she smiled her triumph.

Oh yes, she would be the one to make him scream.

And then, suddenly, his hand was between her thighs, his fingers sliding across wet curls and between slick folds, and she was the one who felt like screaming.

"You're fucking soaked," he said low against her ear, because somehow his mouth was on her neck again, "told you I was gonna make you scream," and she threw her head back and gasped at the feeling of his warm, calloused fingers stroking her clit, her hands going slack again as she reveled in the feel before remembering herself.

"Like hell," Maka growled at him, pushing him away, and he frowned down at her at the action.

"What the—"

"Get on the bed. Now." She wasn't asking, but he wasn't about to give in easily and, instead of complying, he tackled her to the bed, kissing her soundly as his body covered hers, legs tangled, erection once again hard against her belly.

She kissed him back for a bit before pushing at his chest, causing him to sit up, half straddling her, and look down in question. "What?"

"I said get on the bed, not—"

"You didn't say I couldn't take you with me," Soul smirked at her, and she smacked his chest lightly.

"Whatever, loverboy," she rolled her eyes. "You have a condom? Because it seems like we're about to that point."

By the deer caught in headlights look that suddenly flashed across his face, she could guess his answer even before he spoke it.

"You don't have one, do you," she said with a sigh of exasperation.

"No," he looked almost sheepish. "Sorry 'bout that but—"

"What kind of guy picks up girls at a club but doesn't carry protection?" she asked, incredulous.

"I don't normally go home with random girls," he frowned. "Shouldn't you have one anyway?"

"What, you think I go home with random guys?" she sat up at that, and even drunk and horny, she couldn't help being angry,  _"I've never done this before you asshole!_ "

His eyes widened suddenly. "Oh god, you're a virgin?"

She couldn't help it, she smacked his chest again because  _clearly he was an idiot._  "Noooo…I've just only, you know, with actual boyfriends. Not… I mean, not…"

"Oh," he said, relaxing visibly. One hand suddenly moved to her arm, trailing down lightly, teasingly, as some thought seemed to dawn in his eyes. "You on the pill?"

"Yes, but—"

Soul cut her off. "Well, I'm clean," he suddenly looked so damned  _eager_ , far too eager, "so if you're clean too, we could—"

"WHAT?!" it was her eyes that went wide this time. "No, fuck no—no way, are you crazy?"

"But—"

"Look, I think—maybe—there could be something in the drawer from…" She trailed off because she barely knew him, it's not like he needed her entire sexual history, and scrambled over to her bedside table. After several moments of rummaging through, she found the gold she sought, a line of three condoms in shiny gilded foil. "Ah!" she held them up with a triumphant grin.

For his part, he looked suddenly skeptical. "You're sure they aren't expired?" he raised a fine white eyebrow, and holy shit she'd almost forgotten just how hot he was, but those red eyes trained on her with a mix of naked desire and disbelief was a stark reminder. She suddenly scanned the packages desperately, as she stammered "I—uh—no!" —bingo!— "It's got two months left, we're good!"

She sighed in relief, noting his matching sigh as she tore one of the condoms off the line and crawled back over towards him on the bed. Maka tried hard to make it look sexy after that debacle, but really, who looked sexy crawling across a sinky memory foam mattress, even stark naked? Fortunately, he was sexy enough for both of them as he eyed her hungrily, his erection still shockingly, enticingly intact even after that embarrassing little interlude. Either she was _that_  sexy or he was _tha_ t horny, though since the first had never been exactly true, she guessed it was the second. Well, she was damned horny too, and still feeling giddy from the booze, so it worked out well.

Leaning in to kiss him again greedily, she ripped open the package and began to work it over him, a bit awkwardly without looking, but his own hands moved down to help her and, soon enough, he was sheathed in latex, cementing the reality of what they were about to do.

She  _should_  have felt mortified or wrong, she barely  _knew_ him afterall, but all she really felt was heat and desire as she kissed him desperately for several minutes, rekindling the heat between them, before sliding herself onto his lap, sliding her slick heat over his erection, grinding it against her clit and moaning at the contact because it felt fantastic, his stiff heat hitting her  _just right_  as she writhed in his lap. Good as it felt, though, it wasn't quite  _enough_ ; she had seen him, touched him, she wanted to feel him, really  _feel him_ , could think of few things she'd ever wanted more. About to reposition, to move so that she could sheath him inside of her, she suddenly found herself on her back as he pushed her down to the bed, looking down at her with a grin, his face flushed and needy.

"Nice as that feels, I think I need more. Ready for me to put my hotdog in your bun?"

Maka giggled. Was this guy for real? "No," her voice was sultry, only half pretence as he held himself by the base of his cock and slid the tip across her clit and down towards her entrance, "but you can ride your skin boat to tuna town."

Soul laughed at that, low and throaty, his shoulders shaking, before he looked down at her, laughter gone. Still, she could see his visible struggle to keep a straight face and giggled again. "As—good as that sounds, I think I'd rather put my stinger in your honey hole."

They snorted simultaneously at that and he collapsed on top of her, their shaking together both amusing  _and_  somewhat arousing. Finally, he sat up again and looked down at her, eyebrow raised comically.

"But—" she grinned up at him as he once again began to move his tip through her slick folds. "Wouldn't it be better if you shot your baby gravy into my saucier?"

He started laughing again, throwing his head back, his chuckles deep and echoing through the small space as she awaited his response, giggling against him. And then, before she knew what was happening, he made it, thrusting himself inside of her, filling her fully even as he lowered himself to his hands to hover over her, even as he was still chuckling heartily. He kept laughing and so did she as he thrust himself into her again and then again. He felt big and hard and  _right_ , and she laughed with him as he filled her, as she surrounded him, so absurd, so perfect. It felt  _good,_  though, and as her laughs began to end in moans, just as she was ready to grab his ass and ride him into oblivion, she heard a chuckle end in a long, low moan of her name and felt him twitch inside of her.

That—wait—had he…?

When he collapsed on top of her, panting, she had her answer.

Oh crap.  _Crap._ He was still inside of her, half hard, and that still felt  _good_ , but she was overwrought, needed to feel him thrusting inside of her, needed more of him, and he was done. It was over. Her laughter died in her throat as she felt utterly  _cheated._

"You're done," she said flatly, unhappily.

Yeah, he'd been the one to say her name, but she'd hoped there would be a bit more to it that  _that_.

"Yeah, sorry," he said against her neck, sounding embarrassed. "Normally not that—um—fast," he raised himself on his arms again to look down at her. "But you're really hot and, oh god, I'm sorry but—" He was flushed red in embarrassment, his face a mask of mortification before a sudden epiphany flashed across it and he smiled. Soul sat up all the way and his soft dick slid out of her. Looking down at her, his hands sliding to her thighs to part them wider, his grin was suddenly the most wicked thing she had ever seen.  _"Still_ gonna make sure you scream my name."

And as his head dove between her legs, as she felt that long hot tongue between her folds, Maka suddenly felt far less cheated.

Turned out he was true to his word. Between that sinful tongue, his long long fingers, and the two unused condoms, he  _did_ make her scream his name—over and over and  _over_  again. Of course, she was also a woman of her word, and his own screams of her name were like music to her ears.

When she woke up the next morning, blinking away sleep, she felt warm limbs entangled with hers, strong arms holding her, and saw red eyes looking down at her with a warm smile.

Shit.  _Shit._   _What the hell had she done?_

"Uh, hi," she said cautiously.

"Hi," he returned fondly.

"You're, uh, still here," Maka couldn't help but to blurt. Weren't one night stands supposed to  _leave_  before morning to avoid this awkwardness? At least, that's what they did in movies and romance novels. As she saw the hurt cross his face, brief but absolutely  _there,_  she figured she'd said the wrong thing, but before she could do damage control, he shrugged.

"Fell asleep. I can—"

"No, no, it's fine, I just—" she glanced at her alarm clock and cursed. "Look," she sat up. "I gotta get ready for work, they foisted me with some entitled dumbass to show the ropes and I need to get everything set before he shows, but um, feel free to borrow my food and my shower. It was, really nice, but I need to—"

"Hop in the shower, I can make you breakfast," Soul offered, surprising her.

"I—"

"Seriously, Maka, it's the least I can do after—everything, I guess. I gotta get to my new job, but I don't have to be there until ten, so—"

"Um," stunned by how  _different_ this was from how she had heard these things were supposed to go, she nodded, getting up from the tangled sheets and hurriedly grabbing a shirt to throw on; even knowing he had seen and touched and  _licked_  every last inch of her last night, she couldn't help her embarrassment. In her haste, she didn't even notice she'd put on the same band shirt he had discarded last night. "That'd be great, thanks," she forced a smile and practically sprinted through the door of her en suite to close it quickly behind her. She heard him stirring on the other side and tried  _not_  to think about him walking around her room stark naked, about his morning wood she had felt pressed against her thigh, about how  _good_  their drunken escapades had felt last night (though part of her knew that, by the end, as they used the third condom, as she rode him desperately to the most powerful orgasm she'd ever known, she had definitely been sober).

As the water cascaded down her shoulders, Maka stifled the urge to touch herself at the thought, or worse, to grab him and do by the morning light what had felt so good last night. She wasn't this girl—she didn't just—didn't just— Only she did, and she had, and it had been  _fantastic._  But that didn't mean she was going to ever do it again. Even if she suddenly knew what real attraction felt like. Even if it was the best sex she'd ever had. Even if she suddenly understood just why people  _liked_  sex so much.

No, much as the idea of spending the morning, day, week, year in bed with him made her body tingle, she would get through breakfast, send him off, and get on with her life.

She came out of the shower in a thick terry cloth robe and was relieved to find her bedroom empty. Clicking the lock just in case, she got dressed quickly—she needed to be at work in 45 minutes—and then, twisting her hair up in a tight bun because drying it was not a real option this morning, she came out of the room in her black pencil skirt and red silk shirt, looking every inch the professional. As she made her way to her own kitchen cautiously, heels clicking loudly on the hardwood, she heard him bustling, and was that… humming?

Oh god. He was _humming._

It stopped as she approached, and as she rounded the corner, the sight of him in his jeans from last night, no shirt (for she had mistakenly grabbed it in her haste,) and her purple frilly "Cooking the Books" apron that had been a gift from her Dad was just too much. She choked down a laugh, trying very hard to keep a straight face. She was pretty sure she failed, but Soul grinned over at her anyway, looking her up and down appreciatively before motioning over to the table as though he owned the place, as though he weren't currently cooking a meal in the apartment of a virtual stranger.

"Sit, I'll make you a plate." Despite the fact that it was a little strange and borderline insulting being ordered around in her own home, he  _had_  cooked her breakfast, so Maka did as she was bid, and Soul walked over shortly after with something flat and tan, rolled and covered with strawberries and whipped cream.

"Is this—"

"—a crepe? Yeah." He scrubbed a hand through his hair. Was that nervousness? She swallowed down her surprise at that. "Hope it's okay."

"I'm sure it'll be great, thanks!" She forced a bright smile through her awkwardness, started eating, and tried  _not_ to stare at him. Mostly she was successful, but hell, no one should look  _that_ good in a frilly purple apron.

Soul sat down across from her with his own crepe, and after she commented on how good it was (and it  _was_ , how he had coaxed such a meal out of her mostly bare cupboards she would never know,) they both ate in silence for a minute then two. It was too tense for her, though, too loaded, so she said between bites, "you didn't strike me as the cooking kind—where'd you learn to do this?"

He grinned in return. "I'm just  _that_ good," he said with a waggle of his eyebrows. Her only response was a glare, and after a moment he put up his hands in surrender. "Aaaaaand I may have been a bored kid, and the cook maaay have taken pity on me and taught me a thing or three."

She raised an eyebrow. "You had a cook?"

He just shrugged at that, a little sheepishly, and changed the subject.

"You know," he said, his expression neutral. "I'm  _really_  glad I asked you to dance."

"Because I was easy?" Maka laughed, flushing with embarrassment and shoveling another bite in her mouth.

"Nah," he shook his head. "Lotsa easy at that club. Actually never thought you'd go for me or  _anyone_ , it's why I asked."

"Wha?" Her mouth gaped. "You asked me—because you thought I'd say no?"

"Not exactly," Soul let out a breath. "Just—I don't like that scene, but my friend keeps draggin' me along, right? I just go and mind my own business, have a few drinks, whatever. Make sure he doesn't do anything fucking stupid, which he's got a knack for. Well, this time the asshole decides to collect on a bet I lost—insists I gotta ask a girl to dance." He sighed at that, shaking his head. It was the most words he'd spoken to her and she wondered what he was  _getting at,_  exactly. "Anyway, I saw you sitting there, and it was pretty fucking clear you were about as happy to be there as I was, so I figured if I asked and you said yes, it would  _just_  be a dance. I've never taken a girl home, not interested in some random fuck, and you didn't seem like the type who would throw herself at me, and—"

"—what? Your think I normally take home random guys? I thought we covered this last—" she practically shrieked.

"—calm down, I'm not done," he cut her off. " _You weren't._  I  _know_  you didn't want to dance with me, but you were nice enough to do it anyway, and then—well, then you know what happened. You were really fucking hot and, I don't know…" His hand was in his hair again, nervous, but he pushed on. It was as if he were compelled to spew this—this—emotional diarrhea, and Maka found herself sick with what it might mean. "There was something about you, about _us_ , I felt this—I don't even know, this connection, like I was drawn to you—god that sounds fucking cheesy, but anyway, between that and the booze and everything—we ended up here. But the thing is, even though I know this was some random fuck or whatever,  _I don't want it to be._  I—I really like you. So I was hoping, maybe—"

Maka held up a hand, shook her head. " _Like me?_ Soul, you barely  _know_  me!"

Something like hurt flashed across his face again, for the second time since she'd met him, before it was replaced by a predatory grin. "I know you whimper my name just before you come, and you scream it when it happens—just like I promised."

She went scarlet, she couldn't help it, and chucked her napkin at his face as he laughed. She shoveled another bite in, her eyes down on her plate.

"But seriously," he said as his laughter died down again, his gaze far too intense. "I'd really like to see you again, we could get to know each other better. Could it  _hurt_  to at least exchange numbers?"

She sighed yet again, shaking her head, but his gaze was almost pleading, and she doubted she'd be able to get out of here easily unless she agreed, and she was already going to be leaving later than she'd hoped, so she slid her phone towards him and let him program his number in and send himself a text from her phone. By the time Soul was done, Maka had finished her last bite—it really was delicious—and then stood from the table.

"Look, I've gotta go. Like I said, training the entitled dumbass. Feel free to finish breakfast, use the shower, and let yourself out. It was—" she couldn't help but to tell a bit of the truth, because he looked so  _earnest_  "—really nice." She  _knew_  her smile was too damned soft, but she couldn't help it, he was—so ridiculous, so sincere, so  _attractive_  sitting there in her frilly purple apron that she couldn't help it.

Even still, even if it had been a fantastic night, it was never going to happen again. People tended to let you down, men especially. Better to have this as a glorious memory than some future heartbreak.

Maka turned and left with that thought firmly in place, determined that Soul was very likely to keep his place as the best fuck of her life since she never planned to see him again.

Three hours later at work, she was exhausted. Liz was chattering her ear off about the hottie she'd taken home, bombarding her with questions about how it was, how he was, and see, wasn't it worth taking the stick out for once? But she didn't have time for Liz—she needed to look over the file for this guy she was supposed to train, figure out what she was dealing with before the prodigal son walked through her door, but Liz had forgotten to get the file from Marie's assistant Kilik (or, as Maka suspected, she was too busy flirting with said assistant to actually get the file,) and Kilik was being damned slow about getting it to them now, and the guy was supposed to be there in five minutes, and she still knew next to nothing about him other than the short blurb on the memo Liz had gotten from Marie originally, which  _didn't even include his fucking name_.

This was  _not_  how she wanted to start her Monday. She was sipping on her coffee, eyes straying to her view of the city, waiting for Liz to finally return with the file, when she heard a tentative knock at her door.

"Come in," she said, unable to keep the irritation from her voice, because since when did Liz knock?

"Uh, Ms. Albarn?" A dark head of hair poked in and Maka tried to force a smile.

"What can I help you with, Tsugumi?" she asked the receptionist kindly. The girl was new and timid and Maka didn't want to traumatize her in her first month.

"Uh, well, Ms. Thompson is away from her desk, and um, there's someone here to see you, the new—new Music Editor, so if you don't mind—"

Maka heaved a lengthy sigh. Perfect. "Let him in," she waved a hand at Tsugumi, who nodded and stepped back from the door to scurry back to her haven behind the main reception desk. In her place appeared a tall man in a stylish pinstripe suit. A tall, white haired man. With red eyes. And sharp, sharp teeth.

"You!" they gasped at the same time, and she blinked and shook her head because there was no way, no _fucking way._  This was—a dream? A _nightmare?_  She almost pinched herself.

"Y—you're—" she stammered, still shaking her head in disbelief.

"The entitled dumbass, apparently," he recovered first and smiled at her, far too warmly. "Name's Soul. Soul Evans. And you must be M. Albarn."

"Maka. Albarn," she offered stiffly. "Fiction Editor and Assistant Editor-in-Chief." She rose from her desk out of habit, held out her hand, and he took it, grasping it too long and too warmly as they shook, his eyes holding the same intensity they had last night. "I…" she shook her head yet again, and then, motioned to her desk. "Have, uh, a seat. There are a few things we should go over, and, uh—"

The door opened at that, and Liz came in holding the long overdue file marked, predictably, Soul Evans.

"I finally got it, Kilik was—" she noticed his presence, then, and her free hand flew to her mouth as she gasped "—oh—my—GOD! I'll just, um—" she shoved the file at Maka "—be leaving then. I'm sure you two have tons of—er—business to discuss so, um, yeah. I'lltalktoyoulaterMakapleasedon'tkillme!"

With that, the tall blond was out the door, leaving two stunned figures blinking after her.

Maka really  _was_  going to kill her assistant.

"So, uh," Maka broke the silence. "Like I said, have a seat." And she punctuated the request by taking a seat herself, feeling somehow more confident behind her large desk, in her comfortable chair. Soul followed suit and took the far less comfortable chair across from her, and they just stared at each other for a few moments, something like amusement clear on his features amidst the disbelief.

Finally, she broke the uncomfortable silence again after he cleared his throat pointedly. "So, you have a lot of responsibilities as a section Editor, and we'll get to all of them eventually, but—um—the jist of it is that you choose the topic, writers, and articles that are included in your section." God she was nervous; her palms were sweating and she felt almost feverish. She'd never been this nervous in all her time at Death Magazine, not since she'd been an intern several years ago. Why,  _why_  did it have to be him? "For, uh, your first edition, since it's a probationary period, I'll have final say over your section, sort of like—um—veto power, but unless you do something really stupid, I shouldn't need to use it." She met his eyes, still boring into hers, and sighed. "You're not going to do anything stupid, are you Soul?"

"Nope," he said with a smile. "Guess we'll be working really closely together, then, right? Maybe we can even go out tonight and talk shop over dinner?"

"I don't think that's a good idea," Maka said, bristling. Clearly, he  _was_  going to do something stupid.

"And why's that?" Soul leaned in expectantly.

"Because, I don't  _date_  the people who work for me, Mr. Evans."

"Ah," he leaned back again. "Wouldn't be a date, though," he grinned. "Just work. I have a lot of questions. A working dinner  _definitely_  isn't a date."

She just rolled her eyes at that. "I'm here now. You have questions, now's the time, but our relationship is strictly professional from this point on and will be as long as you work for me, you'd do well to remember that."

"Well, then, I have a question."

She expected more snark, but she didn't get it. Instead, he asked her about the previous Editor for his section, a perfectly legitimate question. As it turned out, he had a lot of questions, most of them good ones—though Maka half suspected he kept coming up with them just to have an excuse to stay in her office.

From then on, they worked closely together because they  _had_  to, and eventually, inevitably, the awkwardness faded. It turned out he was capable if a little on the lazy side, and had a keen eye and ear for all things music related. Turned out he wasn't just a walking pedigree, that he hadn't even given his real last name when he applied for the position because he didn't want to be hired because of who his parents were, who his brother was—famous musicians, all. Turned out his wit was sharp and so was his mind, and that, above all, Soul was  _reliable._ If he said he'd do something, he would, he did. Whenever Maka, or anyone really, asked him to do something, he might bitch, but it was always done.

So it went. After the first few days, Maka could meet his eye without blushing, after the first week, she no longer wanted to kill Liz, and as weeks turned into a month gone by, she found that as much as she was still  _attracted_ to the new Music Editor, and she really was—try as she might, she could never quite get that night out of her mind—she had grown to genuinely  _like_  him, and she couldn't help but to wish that they actually  _could_  go to dinner, that they actually  _could_  see if they had a chance together, and especially, that they actually  _could_  have a night like they'd shared together after the club.

But he worked for her, so they couldn't.

And for Soul's part, he hadn't even tried, hadn't even so much as hinted that he wanted to after that first day.

Then, five weeks after they met, five weeks since they'd started working together, Soul strolled into her office one day with a wide smirk on his face. He slammed something large and glossy onto her desk and leaned down. His predatory gaze was back, the one she had glimpsed in fleeting moments but hadn't really  _seen_  in a month.

"Wha-aat?" Maka asked, confused.

"August issue. I just met with Marie and my probation is up. I'm  _officially_  the new Music Editor.  _I don't work for you anymore._ " His red eyes looked like they might burn her, they were so intense; they certainly  _felt_  that way. It seemed suddenly far too hot in the room as that night last month back came rushing back to her. So  _this_  was what he'd been waiting for.

"That's, true…" she looked up at him and swallowed, hard. "You don't. We're—colleagues now—equals." Maka stood up because she couldn't take the way he was looming over her across the desk, and they were suddenly close as he stepped around the desk to face her.

"So," Soul looked down at her, one hand moving up to brush back a stray lock of her hair, and she had to fight not to lean into his touch. "Do you date colleagues?"

"I haven't," she said evenly, her own hand moving up to brush his white bangs out of his eyes, "but I suppose I  _could,_ if, I mean, the right colleague were to come along."

"Mmm," he hummed. "Well, when he does, he's gonna be one lucky—"

He never got to finish because her lips were on his, and a month's worth of pent up frustration sparked between them.

A locked door later, they got to work through that pent up frustration, several times, really.

Four months later, Marie went into labor and Maka was named Editor-in-Chief. Since Soul had moved in with her the month before, she decided to bend her policy on dating people who worked for her, just this once.

After all, as Liz would say, sometimes you had to go for it, to live a little, and sometimes, it really was no bad thing.


	14. The Cave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Cave of Sensebility heightens emotions--and Bonded Warrior Maka and her Wizard Soul have many emotions to share.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is the second prize for my Ton O’ Minions giveaway on tumblr. It was written for fullmetalgrigori, who wanted Letters smut. As such, this is set in the universe for Letters to My Sister, a joint resbang endeavor with absolutrash. It is set during the third part, and while it is potentially an alternative outcome to a canon event, it is definitely not canon to the story.
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> Thanks to ilarual, rebornfromash, and absolutrash for the eyes, and thanks again to my lovely minions for your continued kindness, awesomeness, and support.
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> I hope this is what you were looking for, FMG--writing smut in epistolary form and a fantasy setting was extremely difficult, a tightrope walk. I only hope I haven’t misstepped so badly that we plummet into the badfic abyss.
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> NSFW for smut--not ridiculously graphic, but sex is a thing that happens in this. You’ve been warned.

My dear sister,

 

In truth, while I address this to you, Tsubaki, I know already I will not, cannot, send it.  It is--these words can be shared with no one, must remain close to my soul and go no further.  I will burn this when I am through, this I also know, yet I have found over the time we've been apart that though I cannot talk through my troubles with you as we did when we were children, to think through them on the page in anticipation of your response, your care and sound advice, helps me to know my own mind, to order my confused and troubled thoughts.  And so I will write now as if it were truly to you, my sister, in hopes that I might understand my own heart and mind, for they are in nothing short of turmoil after what happened last night, and I must gather my shattered sense of self if ever I am to face my Wizard again.

 

But you know not of what I speak, so let me go back to where it started.  I mentioned in my last letter that Sir Stein intended a special training session for us, and so it was.  When we met him, my father was there as well, and they led us to a moderately sized cave, tall, rounded, perhaps the size of a small home inside.  It was lit with torches on the walls, yet there was nothing else to be seen.  Sir Stein told us to step inside, and we did, and then he and my father sealed the place with magic, trapping us behind an invisible barrier.  I touched it with my hand and found it solid, impassible.  

 

From the other side of the barrier, as we stood, surprised, my father’s Warrior told us what we should do as my father stood by his side unhappily, unwilling to meet my eye.

 

“This is the Cave of Sensibility," Sir Stein began, speaking in that flat tone of his.  "In this cave, your emotions are intensified, crystallized, and truth is manifest.  You will both stay in this cave until there is a single victor.  The barrier cannot be lifted otherwise.”

 

"A--single victor?" I asked, and you can imagine, Tsubaki, that I was completely incredulous, for surely he didn't--couldn't--expect us to fight.  "What do you mean a single victor?"

 

"It means what it means." His face stretched into that crazed grin he sometimes wears--I know you’ve seen it-- and I had to stifle a shudder, Soul's disgust doubling my own. "Can't expect me to give you all the answers.  Well then, we'll be back to check on you in two days if, that is, you don't seek us first sooner.  Have fun you two!"  And with that, the odd, infuriating man bounded off, waving over his shoulder casually as if he'd only just left to retrieve a picnic.  

 

Yet, my father stood behind still, his mouth working as he stared between Soul and I in something akin to anguish, something very like despair.  Before he could speak, however, Sir Stein turned around from his place up the path and called out, "Come, Spirit, we need to leave lest their training be interrupted."  

 

My father then clamped his mouth shut, jaw tight.  He nodded once and, keeping his eyes on mine, said, "I love you, Maka.  You're going to be alright," before turning on his heel and disappearing with his Warrior.  I could not tell if the words were meant more to comfort me, or himself.

 

At that, Soul and I were left alone in that damp, dismal place, left with no obvious escape.

 

"So we have to fight each other," I said grimly.  We were allowed no weapons, no armor, it was but him and myself in plain clothes, trousers and shirts and boots and nothing more, nothing to fight with, certainly.  

 

He shook his head. " I--don't think so.  That doesn't--"

 

But I didn't listen.  My fear was mounting, of that strange place, of our strange situation, and you know me, my sister, you know how my fear quickly turns to anger.

 

"Let's get on with it!" I cried, lunging at him.  He tried to avoid me, fend me off, but he does not possess the skills of a trained Warrior as I do, and I easily overpowered him, wrestling him to the damp, dank cave floor to straddle him.  

 

"Do you yield?" I growled down at him, my anger white hot without real reason.

 

He rolled his eyes at me.  "You think it would be so easy, you stupid, violent, rash woman?  You think I can simply yield and this will be over?  As if it would be so damned simple. Think.  I know you have a brain in that idiot bloody head of yours, so use it for once!  He said a _single victor._  We can't yield.  Only one can leave, don't you _get_ it?"  

 

He sounded frantic, desperate, and I felt him push his feelings at me through our connection, raw and electric. It began with an overwhelming need to stop this, to protect me, to do anything or everything in order to end this, to have me see reason.  But as I blinked down in surprise, my own anger quickly replaced with confusion, as my Wizard was given a moment, but a moment, where the fear that drove him ceased with my attack, where he could feel how close our bodies were, see, truly see, how near my face was, feel my breath mingle with his own, watch me panting, it moved something else within him, something as raw and primal as my anger had been only moments before, thick and heady and twice as hot.  I felt like he was burning my soul away with his own, with this something he tried desperately to pull back even as the cave pushed it to its outer limits.  The feeling was not unknown to me, though I had long refused to see it, to name it, to acknowledge it and risk it coming to light.  His flame sparked my own, an ember that I had tried to smother for so long, banking the fire high and hot in the merest instant, the cave magnifying what was in his soul, what was in mine.

 

I dread even to write this next bit, to ink the words that would surely blacken my name among any decent society, that would brand me as fallen, as unworthy, that would forever tarnish my reputation were the truth to become known, and yet, you will not see these words, my dear Tsubaki, as no one must see them.  Even still, if I am to understand, then I must write them, must see the truth writ large where perhaps, just perhaps, I might make sense of it all. And so I press on, knowing full well that this paper, this ink, will burn long before it has any chance to be seen by eyes not my own.  

 

The magic, the heat, it took us both, and before either knew what we did, our lips met, hot and eager.  It is wrong, I know!  For me, unwed, unpromised, to kiss a man.  It is scandal, a black mark on my name!  And yet, if only it were all, a lone transgression.  I wish I could say the magic did all, overwhelmed us both, but the magic is merely an amplifier.  It cannot work on what is not already there to begin with.  It intensifies what exists, nothing more.  I have promised, sister, I would tell every truth in this letter, since if I cannot admit the truth even to myself, then what hope is there for me to understand it?  Thus I will pen words that I blush to write, that you would surely blush to read, and content myself that you never shall.  I fear the mess I make of this and can only be glad for that last truth much as I wish, desperately wish, for your counsel in this, for there was much more than just that kiss.

 

And such a kiss!  We wondered often as young girls what it might be like, to kiss the one who held our heart, the one we would wed.  It is strange, warm and wet and pleasant--it is heat and sensation and _want_.  His lips were like nothing I had known, and all I wished for was more and yet more.  And then I felt his tongue, his _tongue_ Tsubaki, and every thought was gone.  There was only this overwhelming heat and this--it is difficult to describe, and the echo between our souls was so intense that where his feelings ended and mine began is impossible to say, but I needed to be close to him.  There was only that single focus, that one true desire.  My entire world became _him_ , and nothing else mattered. It was insanity, pure and true, and yet--it was wrong, I know it was--but it was also the greatest, the _truest_ thing I have ever known.  

 

No, that is wrong.  I have known a greater, truer thing, but only because this came first.   ~~It is  I am  there are~~   I don't know how to write this.  I don't know if I even should,  but still I push on.  After our lips met, then our tongues, after we engaged in that joining for a time, our hands ceased to be idle as the flame between us continued to grow, each new touch stoking it yet higher.  Eventually, he sat up and pulled me closer.  I was ~~\--in his lap,~~ straddling his lap and ~~that is--we are not--~~ I could feel his ~~arousal manhood~~ how much what we did affected him.  It should have mortified me, I know it should have.  It should have sent me running.  I am ashamed to say that it did not.   ~~I wanted--~~ Feeling it made my need to be close to him, to my Wizard, my partner, my Soul--I blush to admit it, but made it grow, and while I knew only what little I had read or heard spoken among the maids, what gossip I had shared with you about such matters, instinct was strong and ~~I--~~ by Eibon, Tsubaki to write such a thing!  I moved against him on purpose, so lost was I in--the heat, I suppose--in him.  And he made such a noise, low and animal, that I could not help but to echo it, and the feel ~~of his arousal--~~ of him so close, so near my most hidden part--it was overwhelming, maddening, so much and not nearly enough.  

 

As we faced each other as equals, our hands did not long remain idle.   ~~I--our bodies, we--I--~~ We removed our clothing desperately.   ~~To admit--to remember--but~~ This is what occurred.  As each new layer exposed us to one another, it felt like his hands were everywhere, big and warm and--I know how wrong it was, sister, I know, but it felt right, absolutely right, as though this were always to be, as though we could meet no other end, would wish no other end.  His touch was--I have not the words, but every stroke of his hand, of his fingers against my skin set me ablaze anew.  I became greedy for him.  I wished to explore his skin with my hands, to map every bit of him.  - ~~I wanted--I needed--~~ In truth, in _truth_ \--I wished to claim him.  There was only the thought--or truth--or instinct that he was, must be, _mine_ \--that I must be his in turn.  

 

I did not deny my wishes, wishes echoed within his own soul.  We touched.  We tasted.   ~~We--I mean, he--that is--~~ How may I hope to share what occurred then?  Though surely, sister, were you meant to read this, you would have guessed long since.   ~~We--~~ Eventually, we were stripped bare in each other's arms, the fire between us so high and hot that there was room for nothing else.   ~~Our--my--his--~~  I remained in his lap, but we wore nothing, there was nothing between us, our skin, our souls, ~~our most intimate parts were flush against each other,~~ our mutual need to come together--and I could feel ~~-his manhood--need--arousal--~~  him.  Close and hot and, sweet mother of Eibon, I needed to feel him closer.  

 

It was madness, I swear it was madness that drove me as I slid against him, ~~slick with--~~ oh how can I write such a thing?   ~~My skin is hot, I--how will I ever feel like myself again?~~  I am grown foreign and strange, fallen, utterly fallen.   ~~And yet it was--we were--I was--~~ I will simply write the words.  I allowed him to take my maidenhead.  Or what is more true, ~~I--we--~~ I chose to lose my maidenhead with him, I impaled myself upon him willingly, nay desperately, I gave myself to him wholly as he gave himself to me.  I knew what it was that I did.  I could not care.  There was only the need, so overwhelming, to feel him. And it felt--again, there are no words.  Always have I been able to find the words, but words lost all meaning.  There was only heat and frenzy and him and him and _him_ as ~~we moved together-- as we came together--~~ we became one--one body, one mind, one soul.  One.  

 

You will think this a matter of lust--even to write the word is so strange!  And yes, there was lust, mine and his, but beneath it, driving it, were other things.  Friendship.  Devotion.  And above all, love.  Yes, my sister, there was love.  His for me and--what I could not, would not see before--mine for him.  Long as I denied it, denied him, denied the truth within our very souls, I can deny it no longer.  

 

Our joining did not last long.   ~~We--neither of us--you know I was a maiden--he had never before--~~  It was instinct that drove us, and it was brief and--Tsubaki I have never known anything like it, never felt anything  like it, it was as if my body were hurled into the heavens and gifted pure bliss by the gods themselves.   We reached this bliss together, and as quickly as it had begun it was done and we held each other.  Being in his arms, holding him in my own, those moments, I know it should be wrong, but it did not feel wrong.  For as much as I know that it was sin, I still cannot see it so.  In truth, I had never felt so right; it was as though for the first time in my life, I was exactly where I was meant to be. It was a feeling we shared, contentment whole and total. We fell asleep then, utterly spent, utterly sated, and when morning came, we awoke and left the cave together, hand in hand.  The cave required a single victor and so it was.  We had each conquered the other and were now complete, one, joined in every way.  Love Bound us, and so the spell upon the cave was broken.

 

Yet, that truth, by light of day, it was too stark, too raw.  As we moved down towards the camp, I dropped his hand, the horror at what I had done settling in, for _I was no longer a maid._ Would they see it, know it on mere sight, the stain upon my soul?  Would my sin be manifest, forever tainting me, forever damning me? Soul felt my guilt, my shame, and the contentment we had shared by night melted into _his guilt, his despair_ that he had somehow hurt me.  He was mistaken; my Wizard had done nothing wrong.  Loving him, needing him as I did, I had only hurt myself.

 

We were met at the edge of camp by my father and his Warrior, one wearing a frown and the other a wide, knowing smile.

 

"So you came to see yourselves as one after all." He seemed so smug, so amused, that I wished to lash out at him, but Soul felt my anger rise and took my hand, squeezing.  It only increased my guilt, snuffing my anger as quickly as it had come.  It wasn't that we had come to see ourselves as one, no; we had _become one_ , and I admit, sister, then and now, it frightens me.  Beyond the loss of my innocence, of my good name, it frightens me, for now I know all that is at stake, just how much I have to lose.  

 

We were told we could rest this day and all the next, and once we were led back to camp, I shut myself into my tent, where I have been since.  After hours of grief, of fear, of despair, I decided to write to you, to try to clear the chaos from my head.  And so I have.  I find, my friend, that in spilling my thoughts, my heart, my soul, all that has happened, that my mind calms, it eases.  

 

Yes, I am a maid no more--yet in place of this, I am repaid with love, with loyalty, with being well and truly whole.  Hours have I spent in despair, hours in regret of my loss, yet as I relive that night, I see now that I have gained far more.  Tradition tells us that our maidenhood is sacred, to lose it a taint we can never cleanse.  I do not feel tainted.  In truth, it did not feel wrong.  No, it felt real and true and for the first time in my life, I am whole.  I should regret it, I believed I regretted it when we left the cave, yet I cannot regret it now.  I know his only regret was bound in mine, in his concern for me.  How can I regret finding such love?  I cannot.  Tradition also tells us that women are fit only for child rearing, yet I am a Warrior and a Knight.   As in that, in this I find tradition to be wrong.  Deep within my soul, I know that what we did was no sin as surely as I know that the sun will set in the night and rise on the morrow.  What we did was not wrong, but right, and if we spoke no vows, how can that compare to the vows writ large in our hearts, in our very souls?  No, I cannot, will not regret it, and I think the gods will pay little mind if two Bound as partners and now as lovers wait just a little bit longer to be Bound in the eyes of society at large.

 

As to the taint, none will see a stain that does not exist.  None will know what I have lost and gained but my Wizard, and I fear not for his good opinion. In truth, even the good opinion of the world at large begins to hold little value for me.  Yet, even still, it is a good thing my Papa cannot know, for if he did, he would surely kill poor Soul, and then what would become of us?  Someday we will wed, when there is time, when the jointures might be made, the proper permissions sought.  Until then, we are joined, and I will not be sorry for it.  

 

I wish I could share this with you, sister, I truly do.  Perhaps one day I might, but for now, I cannot.  It is too fresh, and as much as I love you and know you love me, I fear your censure even still.  Yet, I believe in my heart that you will see the truth as I do when one day I do share it.  For now, my dearest friend, this letter has served its purpose and I shall burn it before I leave my self imposed confinement to find my Wizard.  He deserves to know the truth I have come to; there is much to say, words we have both long felt but have yet to speak even after all that has occurred.  Words too important to remain unsaid.

 

With Love, with light, I bid you adieu.

 

Ever your sister,

 

Maka


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